This week was a banner week for crossed signals and nutty communication. A topsy-turvy week, if you will.
This morning, for example, The BF and I arose just before the crack of dawn, thanks to a call from his son, who lives several states away and is not really old enough to appreciate the time-zone thing. The good news is that even though it was godawful early for a Sunday, (a) I've been rising earlier and earlier anyway, owing to the twin curses of advancing age and young dog; and (b), it was just a general howdy-do call, no big thang. The bad news is that a roughly-wakened, middle-aged heart does not know the difference between an emergency and a mistake, and, especially when it's housed in a worrywart carcass, is inclined to assume the former, and put hard miles on itself, regardless.
I also managed to upset some poor horseperson in Nebraska whose photo I used to illustrate yesterday's post. I thought my Trigger/trigger play on words was hilarious and the photo, perfection; s/he thought I was the devil incarnate and a villainous thief. The whole matter took less than a half-hour to sort out, but still, half-hours don't come cheap these days, and justice is one of my weak spots.
This is on top of a scrap heap of double-booking, overbooking and forgetting I'd booked entirely. I mean, the week itself wasn't bad, but my management of it really was befouled from stem to stern.
And, in the midst of this, I am endeavoring to maintain my commitment to my art, my craft, my love of turning the vague into the concrete. Which is to say: some writing, some more writing, and a wee bit (10 minutes per day, to be exact) of gee-tar playin'. Not too much to ask, right?
It shouldn't be, for these are the things I love, the writing, the gee-tar playing. (Well, the music-making. The gee-tar playing, or the learning of the gee-tar, to be precise, is something I must endure, for now, until such time as I actually do not 100% suck at it. So you see.) And yet, this week, these past few days, I have been feeling love far less than I have obligation. Or outright annoyance. How can I love these things and hate them at the same time?
Well, it's not the same time. Or, more precisely, sometimes it's the same time.
I came across a fine item today about art and pushing through the rough times with it by a fine writer/artist/person named Jen Lee. I'm pretty sure I found her via Dave Pollard, and fairly certain I left a comment on her fine item, but as this is the end of the week of farkakte communication, who knows if it's true and if the comment actually made it through. Jen Lee wrote about her takeaway from Stephen King's wonderful book on writing (aptly titled, On Writing) and Anne Lamott's equally, if not more wonderful book on writing, Bird by Bird, and the big cheese-daddy takeaway, which I left in my comment, which may or may not still exist, is this:
We're all of us nuts, and scared, and a mess; we all of us hate the hell out of the thing we love some days.
It's true, you know. Even the thing you love more than anything will flip you the bird some days, or wrassle with you on other days, or, on particularly bad days, take a powder entirely.
Because the thing you love will always come back to you, and you will love each other just as you always did, if not more.
You write well...or don't. You act well...or don't. The muse visits...or doesn't.
Show up every day, and the occasional day off doesn't matter so much. This, from someone 40-some-odd years into one love, and a mere 18 (of conscious, applied effort) into loving another...