“You haven’t written on your blog in a long time,” Carl said the other day.
“I know,” I said. “I don’t have anything to say.”
Which hasn’t been an insurmountable barrier in the past, I know, but there seemed something—not mournful, exactly, because I’ve been having fun—personal, is maybe a better word, for the last two months. Time for working on projects and not trying to convince myself or anybody else that said projects are useful or full of meaning. Just stuff I felt like doing.
Stuff I felt like thinking about.
And all the little pieces of life that come together in the mean while. Lots of holidays and birthdays and cook outs. Some fantastic books (Little Bee is the best book I’ve read in ages, if you want to know). Homemade lemonade. Homemade butterbeer—well, that’s tonight’s adventure, actually, in preparation for tonight’s midnight showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, part 2.
Yes. Carl bought our tickets last week. And we might possibly have seen large chunks of all previous 7 over the last week or so. I’m not exactly sure, to tell the truth, because I keep falling asleep after 20 minutes. A bad brush with insomnia last week has left me playing catch-up for DAYS. Egh. Not my favorite.
Carl was also the one to track down the butterbeer recipe, though I suspect the making of them will be a joint venture. The recipe reviewers gave it an 8.5 out of 10 for similarity to the taste of the theme park brand, so we’re optimistic. Will let you know how it turns out.
Assuming I don’t take another 2 month hiatus.
No, here’s the thing. The real thing, I mean:
My problem is that I don’t really want to do the next thing. I see my next thing, I see it sitting there waiting for me to tug on my boots and go do it. But I don’t want to. I make plans to do it. I think about how it might work. I break it into concrete steps and reasonable chunks and put together a detailed deadline for accomplishing everything I have in me. And then I go make a lasagna. Because lasagna is easy. Nobody ever gets mad at you for making a pan of lasagna.
That’s my problem.
It would be hard to write the blog I want to write, just like it would be hard to write the book I want to write.I would make mistakes, and I generally beat myself up for mistakes because where I come from that’s just what you do. Also people would be mean. (People are often mean, I’ve discovered, when you talk about something besides the weather. Or lasagna, I suppose).
The funny thing is that I’ve also lost my old sense of guilt over it. The more I think about it, the more I realize it’s ok to avoid things. I mean, it could be a problem if you avoid everything in the world, but the number of people actually doing that is pretty low and probably mostly confined to hospice. Most of us are doing the best we can. Yet we’ve made such a religion out of doing the hard thing—whatever is the most difficult and extreme and stressful is probably EXACTLY WHAT YOU SHOULD GO DO RIGHT NOW.
Kind of ridiculous when you think about it.
And I’m kind of over the notion that God or the cosmos is personally offended when I don’t valiantly storm whatever gates I imagine I’m supposed to be storming on that particular Thursday. To tell you the truth, I haven’t found storming to be an especially useful occupation in the main.
So, yes, that’s what I’ve been doing for, oh, probably for the last six months. I’ve been boring myself into greater authenticity. There are probably faster or more lofty ways to do it.
But boredom seems to work just fine.
And no, I didn’t know any of that before I sat down to write this post. I thought this was going to be about butterbeer. Maybe next time.