No drugs required.

I have 5 different possible directions to take this post, all of which are saved as fragments of Word documents on my desktop.  I have been trying to write for days, but quite frankly, everything that is coming out is baloney.  All I can do is stare at the wall.

Y’all, I am exhausted.  And when I am exhausted, I get super pessimistic and woebegone.  Another car honks at me, and I burst into tears.  I find myself presented with chocolate peanut butter brownies, and immediately eat 4.  And then I eat half a frozen pizza.  And tortilla chips.  And maybe some cream cheese on a spoon.  My mind wanders when it should be focused, and I am serious when I should be playful. When I feel overwhelmed, human interaction is the first thing I cut out.  I criticize my body, my abilities, my decisions.

I do not like who I become when I am exhausted.  And I do not like how other people experience me when I am exhausted.

So I’ve been staying quiet.

I’ve been writing in this open venue long enough to know that there are certain things that I should not share.  There are certain times that I should not write publicly.  There are certain emotions that should not be accessible to just anyone.

I make my insides far too available.

But I’m learning to protect my heart, trusting it only to those who have earned it.

So forgive my silence as a simple act of self-preservation.

Let me just get it out: I feel like a terrible blogger these days.

Okay, now I feel better.

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Saturday is the 6th annual Tomato Art Fest in East Nashville.  This is of note for 3 reasons:

1)    Sound the trumpets: I am making my triumphant return to running, as I’ve registered for the 5K in the early morning.  Nashville Miranda and I plan to run together and catch up about life – and if that means running 15-minute miles, so be it.
2)    I’ll be singing backup for the beautiful, the talented, the VOICE – Wendy Jans, at 12:45pm on the main stage.  It’s supposed to be 96 degrees out.  So much for glamour, and/or happiness in general.  But seriously – come hear this woman!
3)    At 3pm, Seth will be entering the Red Head Contest.  For those of you who have had the honor of beholding Seth’s gorgeous (and all natural) locks, you know that he is going to win that ribbon.  He will hold the title of “Tomato Red” soon enough.

Also, I just love tomatoes.  They’re so fat and wonderful.

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I wish we said the same thing about humans, because I have some amazing birthday cheeses in my fridge.

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“Amnesty” is just another word for “grace,” and I think that deep down, that’s why we are so moved over the story of Laura Ling and Euna Lee.  It makes me cry to think about them being pardoned and allowed to return home – mostly because it reminds me of the undeserved kindness and generosity I have been shown in my own life.

Sometimes, I feel just like those girls.

I try to avoid posts like this, because I don’t want to assume that people other than my mom are interested in the minutia of my every day life.  But the truth is that my creativity, energy, and brainpower are currently being channeled elsewhere, and I cannot find the time nor the lucidity to pull together anything semi-intelligent-sounding.

Although I did say “lucidity.”  So.  There’s that.

-    I’m going to the Y every night around 8:30 or 9, and I have rediscovered my love of working out at night, like I did when I lived in Seattle.  It’s amazing, and fits with my natural clock and rhythm.
-    I am approaching the 4-month marker in my new job, and let me just say that starting a job in which one has no previous experience is difficult.  I hate not feeling completely competent, and my brain is saturated with new information every single day.  But I am working hard, and starting to feel like I sort of comprehend what’s going on – not to mention, I work with some very wonderful people (SHOUT OUT, Emma!).  So, heigh-ho.
-    The Facebook fast is going well, and is enabling me to have somewhat of a “soul sabbatical.”  I was worried that apart from Facebook, I wouldn’t know what’s happening in the world – but actually?  It’s kind of nice not to know.  (Unless there is something important going on in YOUR life that I should know about – in which case, please tell me!)
-    Without a steady stream of Facebook notifications being sent to my inbox, I get basically zero emails anymore – but the few that I do get are amazing.  Val writes particularly sensational messages.  We’ve had quite the volley of emails going back and forth this week.
-    For those of you who ARE on Facebook, you should look up Souder Photography.  Their stuff is pretty amazing, and you might see a familiar face in the Musicians/Artists album…
-    For the first time since November, I have the beginnings of some new songs – and this makes me so happy, I cannot even say.
-    Some recent keywords that have led people to this blog: “how could a man make a woman feel more feminine,” “flirting her hanky,” and “by myself housesitter mirror pants.”  What am I writing about?  And why on earth are you still here?
-    I cannot believe I’m saying this, but yesterday, I was so thankful that I lived in Nashville instead of Seattle.
-    Tonight, I’m flying to California for another wedding – this time, my friend Sheryl and her Ukrainian sweetie, Vadym.  For almost 2 years, I thought that Vadym’s name was Roma.  I have no idea how that happened, but there it is.  I’ve known Sheryl for 25 years; for you mathematicians, that is 92.5% of my life.

I’ll be back next week to regale you with stories from the weekend – vodka toasts and… whatever else I learn to be particularly “Ukrainian.”

Well.

What now?

What if life isn’t a checklist?

What if it’s more about (as AnnieBlogs says) the process?

What if it’s more about (as, um, Miley Cyrus says) the climb?

I don’t quite know where to go from here.

Music is never going to pay my bills – and I have no expectation that it should.  So why is it important that I dedicate any time, energy, or effort to it?

Because I believe that we simply must do what we love.

But in the last 6 months, I’ve really stopped pursuing musical endeavors.  I am not writing.  I rarely go to shows.  I feel depleted, and uninspired, and checked out.  I work long days, and have my evenings booked up with various commitments and responsibilities.  So many other things have taken the place of writing.  Silence is a rarity, imagination seemingly an impossibility.

How do we keep the thing that we love a priority?  In the midst of work and relationships and laundry and grocery shopping and getting a zit INSIDE ONE’S NOSTRIL, how do we stay focused on what we were created to love?

I am grateful for my very full life.  But these days, all I want to do is drive away.

I don’t know where to go, though.

And so I stay.

I can blame my lack of creativity on this exhaustion and depletion, thinking that I just need to change something about my day-to-day reality.  It’s so easy to live a guilt-based existence, assuming that if only I did this or that differently, I could dig myself out of this hole.

But to think that “success” or “failure” – in any area of my life – is up to ME?  That is giving myself far too much credit.

I have to remember that the only true source of life and inspiration is in Christ.

I don’t know where else to go.

And so I stay.

I had a thought.  It’s not much, and I don’t even know why I’m feeling it acutely these days, but here it is.

It bothers me when people use their singleness as an excuse for continued adolescence.

I don’t want to use my singleness as an excuse for continued adolescence.

That’s all.

As I lay in my bed last night, sweltering and un-asleep, my thoughts bounced back and forth from the mundane to the life-and-death.

“I need a pedicure.”
“It’s so hot.”
“I hope those journalists are released.”
“What if there’s a nuclear war?”
“I can’t forget to buy toothpaste.”
“Cancer is so evil.”
“Who will take care of Wendolyn?”
“Ugh, I hate gnats.”

How can I have the capacity for such a spectrum of considerations?  To swing from orphans and illness to weight loss and shoes?  I mean, when I am made explicitly aware of issues like poverty and starvation and war and death, how can I spare a thought for something as diminutive as the trailer for “New Moon”?  When I think of American women being detained in North Korea, or little Haitians with no one to love them, or a dear friend who is battling a horrific lung cancer, how can I think about vacations and dating and music?

And yet, here I am.  Caught between the temporary and the eternal, the physical and the spiritual – spinning my wheels wondering if I am pursuing the “right” (often selfish) things when I know, deep down, that life is only meaningful if given away.  Carrie Underwood sure got it right: “When you figure out love is all that matters after all, it sure makes everything else seem so small.”

I guess that Jesus said something along those lines, too.

So simple.  So radical.

There is only one thing that would be enticing enough to make me skip “Lost” and pay $36 to go on a date with myself, by myself.

I mean, barring an NSYNC reunion tour.  Obviously.

Last night, I came home from work and changed my clothes.  I reapplied makeup.  I fluffed my hair, and wore my cute shoes, and took myself down to the Belcourt Theater.  I ordered a glass of wine, found a seat toward the middle, and proceeded to wait for the show to start.

If I’m going to take myself on a date, I am definitely going to be punctual.  Excessively punctual.  BECAUSE I’M WORTH IT!  (I might have been an hour early.)

But the show was worth the wait.  Matraca Berg (wrote a little ditty called “Strawberry Wine”), Gretchen Peters (wrote a little something called “Independence Day”), and Suzy Bogguss (looks as good today as she did in 1995) played a round.  Matraca is coming out with her first album in 10 years, and she played some of her new material; it was heart-stopping.  Suzy’s voice was effortless, strong, and true.  And Gretchen… well, in recent days, Gretchen has been my favorite writer (a position continually jockeyed for between Patty Griffin and Lori McKenna and Matraca and Gretchen).  When she sang “You Don’t Even Know Who I Am,” I couldn’t breathe – and didn’t realize it until the end when I finally exhaled.

Songs like these are my heart and soul – moments of definition in my often nebulous life.  Per Heather’s recommendation, I watched this fascinating piece, and loved hearing that “the mind of God is music resonating” (“…through 10-dimensional hyperspace,” but let’s not pretend that I know what that means).

It reminded me of this, which I had totally forgotten that I ever wrote.

I hope that you can do something that you love today.

Hearken back to Monday’s post.  What was meant to be a shoulder shrug, a lark, a lighthearted jab at my pal Andy, actually sparked quite the response.  While I got a lot of “You go, girl!” comments from women, I have been much more impacted by what I have heard from the men – whether in comment, email, or response via their own blog post.  And while there is no way that I will be able to say everything that there is to say today (yeah, or ever), here is what has been rattling around in my brain this week.

If there is anything that I want to be, it is humble – humble, and teachable.  So THANK YOU to the brave dudes (especially Joey – the catalyst for many of these thoughts today) who had the guts – spine – balls – to challenge my thinking.

Which brings me to my first point: it was wrong of me to emasculate men – denying them of the very thing that makes them male (um… balls… sheesh, I can’t wait to see what keywords bring people to this post) – for not being able to communicate in the way that most women would like them to.  I am not a man-hater – I LOVE men! – and in no way desire to make eunuchs out of a bunch of surely well-meaning guys.  I’m sorry for sounding – snip, snip – harsh and judgmental.

Here’s the deal: in an ideal world, men would communicate clearly.  In an ideal world, women would communicate clearly.  In an ideal world, both sexes would have eyes to see and ears to hear the other person loud and clear.

That is obviously not the world that we live in – due to culture and socialization and upbringing and experiences.  So things get a little bit muddy, a little bit complicated, and sometimes, a little bit… hostile.  Men aren’t up front with their feelings.  Women send mixed signals – a “come hither” straight into a stiff arm.  One person doesn’t know who he is, the other doesn’t know what she wants – or vice versa.  Television only adds to the confusion, portraying men as bumbling idiots, and women as capable-yet-snarky ice queens (think “Everybody Loves Raymond,” or “Home Improvement”).

Who are we?  Who should we be?  Men and women alike are confuzzled.

I so wish that was a real word.

When it comes to love, we’ve all been hurt.  We’ve all been disappointed.  We’ve all got skeletons in the closet, and wounds that haven’t quite healed.  And for as much as we want them, it’s easy to make the opposite sex into the “enemy.”  I have my own stories – things that have happened that have made me a bit gun-shy when it comes to putting myself out there – and when I think of these disgraces, even years later, I still want to bury my head in the sand.

I think it’s safe to say that on a very fundamental level, women want to feel “worth it” to a guy – worth the risk, worth whatever it takes.  But hello – this is 2009.  A man can’t exactly prove his devotion by riding into battle with her hanky in his pocket.  So some of us feel like the least he could do is say, “Hey, you seem great.  I’d love to take you out sometime?”

Then again, the feminist movement sort of threw a wrench in that plan.  We women-folk sure asserted our independence, didn’t we?  Dang it.  We’ve stabbed ourselves in the back.  But that’s another post entirely…

Bottom line: I am backing off from the stance I took on Monday, however playfully I meant it when I first wrote it.  I don’t expect for a guy to take the reins, run the show, ask me out, sweep me off my feet, order me the lamb chop at some swanky restaurant while I sit mute and adoring.  Can you imagine?  Me?  Being conquered?  I do hope for a partnership, with honest and frank communication, equal parts respect and affection – and prior to a relationship, I think that means that both parties are going to need to communicate our interest in whatever way makes sense.

Sigh.  This just zapped every ounce of brain power I possess.

We all just want to matter to someone.

I wish it was easy.  And I hope that one day, it will be.

I might always get zits. I might always run a little late in the mornings. I might always love Whitney Houston key changes. I might always color-code my closet. I might always get annoyed when people open a new box of crackers / gallon of milk / bottle of mustard before they’ve finished the old one. I might always hate my legs. I might always be self-critical. I might always fall behind on returning phone calls. I might always be a little bit particular. I might always withdraw when I feel overwhelmed. I might always smudge my nail polish. I might always feel a tiny bit sad. I might always crave peanut M&M’s. I might always be afraid of swimming. I might always feel like people who drive stick shifts are superior. I might always hate the summertime. I might always be tempted to roll my eyes at girls who I am actually envious of. I might always be tempted to roll my eyes at guys who actually have hurt me. I might always wonder a little bit. I might always worry a little bit.

These things may never change.

And it’s okay.

And those things about you that have been there from the beginning – the things that you are continually calling into question – the things that you feel like you should change and you’re wondering why you can’t? They might never change either.

And that’s okay, too.