It’s always seemed to me like the myth of the miserable artiste producing art through times of great trouble was…overstated…exaggerated…maybe even untrue.
When I am happy, though, it doesn’t seem like there is much to write about. Because I am doing other things? Perhaps. Making more silver rings than I will ever wear. Roaming around with 13. Trying to read books that I never finish. Going to football games. Poking around Pinterest for new recipes.
Am I happy?
There are some things that are still mashing down my angst button pretty hard. Work, mostly. Actually, work period. The tenuousness of my position at work is still not resolved. I have an interview scheduled for a “permanent” spot on the team that’s replacing mine this Friday. That should make me feel a bit better…but…then the rumor mill started reporting that the positions have already been filled and would be announced this week. News to me, the one who hasn’t had her interview yet.
And it just sort of keeps going on like this.
“Everyone” tells me that the company will keep me. “Everyone” says that I am too valuable to the company to lose. But I know that “everyone” is often wrong about such things. Especially this year. So I try to focus on all of the great stuff going on in my life, and not worry about work. Mindfulness, y’all. I’ve got alternatives. I don’t need to worry. Worrying won’t help.
Still. Like the scorpion that stings the raccoon saving his life by swimming him across the river on his back…it’s my nature.
I’m not sure that’s a good analogy, but let’s just stick to it. After all, I’m only stinging myself and I won’t drown.
Anyway, to round back to my original point, I must be pretty happy because I am not writing. I’ve always written more when I’m either unhappy or dissatisfied in some way, even back in my letter writing days.
Does it follow that if I’m not writing I must be happy and satisfied?
I’m not sure the logic really works here, but I’m pretty happy and satisfied right now and I am not a logician. My creative life is fulfilling, and certainly my romantic life is going wonderfully well. I’ve only cried in the car on my way home from work once or twice in the last 3 months. I’m apparently not having night terrors. I don’t even mind going to a pub and not being able to have a beer. Much.
So what’s with the lack of writing if I can’t blame it on happiness?
Shiny new stuff like 13 and making things. The jewelry is literally shiny, but 13 is only metaphorically so.
But…it’s not like I have more or less time than I did when I was less happy. I just have to prioritize, and I haven’t prioritized this for some reason.
Maybe you just get to have so many good things going on at a time. For..balance. It’s like that saying about food. Quick, cheap, good: pick 2. You don’t get overflowing with awesome romance, creativity, intellect, plenty of exercise, home cooked meals, time to do nothing AND an awesome work life–something’s got to give.
I mean, can you have it all?
No, I don’t think you can, and I don’t even want to. I don’t want one of those oversized lives, running everywhere to jam as much activity in as I can. I don’t want to be oversubscribed and under-relaxed. I need time to putter around and figure things out.
I need to have time to drink my fucking coffee. Time to read. Time to watch the Bette Davis marathon on TCM. The essential joys of life.
This isn’t a contest or a race. The one who dies with the most toys, friends, clothes, work certifications, jewelry, or WHATEVER still dies. Who wants to win the race to *that* finish line?
Hint: it’s OK, we all die. Life is 100% fatal.
Seriously. It’s OK. We go to Heaven, or we just die and cease to be or whatever it is that happens to us and it’s OK. It always has been.
As usual, I have deviated somewhat from my point. Which appears to be that I have no idea if being angst-ridden and depressed makes a person more creatively productive. I’m pretty happy and I made 5 silver rings and a bracelet last month.
What does that mean?
Not much, really.
It means I’m happy.
So maybe it actually means a lot.