Days have been blurring into weeks. We’re into June now. A whole new month is before us. Fresh. And squishy.

I’m actually feeling a bit squishy; and I’m not just talking about the perpetual pudge ‘round the waist. It’s not a blah, blobby feeling. No random floating around. I’ve actually been moving in a very focused manner. I feel like one of those soft, smooshy stress balls: often squeezed into a tight, unrecognizable shape that eventually bounces back to normal. Like the foam stress ball, I’m not really bouncing back but sort of returning to normal in that slow-mo way. What’s more, I’m not sure if I get back to my original shape!

Wait…I’m just as doughy as before. Stress ball analogy still stands! Sigh.

What am I trying to say? God, if I could only just spit it all out without sounding 15 all over again. Forgive me for writing is nothing like riding a bicycle! I think that I am possibly forgetting the little I developed while feverishly blogging every night during the school year.

I guess what I want to do is publicly declare war with myself. Maybe war is not the best way to put it. I am forgetting how to write but I have not forgotten my aversion to violence and love of peace.

It’s not really a declaration of war. It’s not really a manifesto. It’s just a seed that I’m determined to make grow.

No more half-assed living.

The only thing holding me back from living my every hope and dream is typing these very words.

Why am I still telling the Internet that my flabby middle bugs me? Because that squishy stuff has been defining me for my WHOLE LIFE and I’m equally scared and undisciplined to do what it takes. I don’t really know. I have been out of therapy for about three years now.

The thing is, I’m thriving. I’m working hard at something I truly believe in. Everyday I feel like I contribute to the universe and in turn lap up the abundance I get in return without collapsing under the guilt of my Catholic upbringing.

Incredibly, I—possibly the most sensitive person on the planet–don’t let myself cry when people look me straight in the eye and spill their broken hearts open after years of inordinate suffering of unimaginable magnitude. Instead, I do my best to help alleviate their suffering by making their goals and my capacity meet in the middle.

I am never satisfied because in this line of work, nothing is ever enough; and yet, I know that I can only do so much. The universe is at once so cruel and so kind. I haven’t figured it all out yet. I hope that I never do. I do like the discovery. And really, who likes a smug S.O.B.? Nobody.

So the daily work makes my soul dance until it is weary. That means that sometimes I complain about the unimportant. I mope. I sit idle. I consume to the point that I become annoyed that I cannot find storage space. The clutter engulfs me and I get angry. With myself.

And so here I am reminding myself to live fully and happily to my ideals. More and more I embrace the challenge, but I recognize that I’m not doing enough.

No more half-assed living.

Tales of full living to come. The stories have already fallen into my lap. Glorious bounty, I tell you.

I was digging around my messy, messy room the other day and ran into all kinds of old goodies like my pacifier from PLURtastic raver times to old school agendas (as in, high school-issued agendas) that told the story of my past life. Anyway, for a few years my agenda was covered in everything that was me. I didn’t need to write my name on the first page because the covers said it all. “Racism. Stop it!”-stickers from the March 21st campaign. A picture of Felicity with a blurry Ben in the background. Teletubbies stickers. Doodles. Poetry. And written in blue permanent marker were three magical words that I almost forgot: Life. Eat it.

🙂

This entry was posted on Saturday, June 3rd, 2006 at 10:08 pm and is filed under Emo-ed Out, The Sacred and Mundane.
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