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Today I’m flying low and I’m
not saying a word.
I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.
The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.
But I’m taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really I’m traveling
a terrific distance.
Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.
Mary Oliver, One Thousand Mornings
*
I want to start by saying that I love my apartment and that there are so many things about it that bring me joy: I’m on the top floor of a corner unit with views of McLaren Park to the South and Sutro Tower to the North; it’s updated just enough to feel modern and comfortable (microwave! dishwasher!) but also has plenty of authentic details that make me swoon (crown molding! original green and white bathroom tile placed in a painstaking pattern! antique doorknobs!); and on sunny days the light drenches everything and I can’t help but bask beneath the bay windows on the couch. My neighbors are quiet (the woman across the hall has lived there for twenty-eight years!), I have my very own garage, and though the neighborhood is removed from more hip parts of town, it’s still just a quick zip to get to everything and everyone I love.
It’s also an older building that, though well-maintained, has its own funky pitfalls, namely that the apartment lacks central heating and features single-paned windows, an icy combination on these recent nights where the temps drop into the 30’s.
Now that you have this scintillating context, let’s move into the (dumb as hell) story:
I moved in eight months ago, and the clunky-living-room-wall-unit-heater was emitting a noise, a soft whirring sound that I discovered was the sound of the pilot light echoing through the drafty tin (tin?) box. Even though the summers are foggy, it never gets too cold and I’m hypersensitive to noise so I turned it off, or rather, Sad Eyes did, at my request, and I brought out my faithful little space heater that I’d fire up on the days I wanted to warm my ankles under the desk.
All this to say, I’ve been so cold. So, I set out on a quest: I had to figure out how to reignite the pilot light. But how? Tater is helpful with so many things, but this? I knew I had to go it alone. What would I do? I cannot tell you how much stress and anxiety this caused me. Did I need a lighter? How would I know where to light it? What if inadvertently released too much gas into the apartment, and then blew us all up?
I was too embarrassed to ask for help for something that I knew was simple. So, I did what any other single person living alone does under this type of circumstance: I turned to YouTube. Within four minutes, maybe three, I found a ninety-second video of a lovely and helpful woman who explained to me that once I opened the control panel door, all I had to do was push a button and hold it for sixty seconds. I pumped myself up, took some deep breaths, and initiated my foray into the uncharted territory of becoming a person who can handle things. Then: voila! Cozy time, just like that.
I danced around the living room like a moron, pumping my fist and asking the dog did you see that!?
And this is the energy I’m bringing into 2022.
Enough with the goals and resolutions: next year, I am embracing my own mediocrity.
You see, I’d like to think 2021 taught me something. I’d like to look back on what I wrote this week last year, and know that in the year since, I’ve gleaned some helpful wisdom that I might distill into some fun end-of-year listicle or a hopeful message to carry us forward into 2022. Instead, I revisit that post (it’s pretty lovely, if I may say so, and my most liked post ever - check it out), and it’s a bit dislocating to read it today and think, damn, I could write the exact same thing verbatim this year.
If I had to name something I’ve learned, it’s this: we’re nearly two years into Life in Pandemia™ and still, none of us know how to do any of this.
So maybe we stop pretending that we know anything. Maybe instead of waiting for things to get better, or for the pandemic to go away, or trying to be perfect so we can finally be happy, we try something different.
With this in mind, here’s my suggestion for 2022:
This year, I say, let’s all give up.
What I mean is, let’s give up pretending that the world—and thus, ourselves, as part of the world—is any different than exactly how it is. If this is as good as it gets, then what? Do we really want to continue with the constant self-improvement? If we are going to live beneath the shadow of the pandemic for the foreseeable future, do we really want to spend our precious time obsessing over things over which we have zero control? What would it be like to give that up? What would be required of ourselves in order to do so?
Believe it or not I’m not being nihilistic or pessimistic or cynical (OK it’s possible that this year I’m slightly more cynical than last year). I’m trying to be honest. I’m tired of waiting for things to get better. I’m tired of relying on people who will never have our best interests at heart to do what is actually helpful. This doesn’t mean that I will ignore science or carry on as if the pandemic is over. But what it does mean is that I am taking expectation off the table. I am humbling down. I am questioning all my potentially (definitely) outdated ways of operating. I am practicing <drumroll> self-acceptance, instead of self-improvement.
None of this shit is exciting, I know! It’s boring as hell! Nothing about any of this is anything anyone would ever want to look at on Instagram! And don’t get me wrong. I still have big dreams and goals and aspirations. I still want to write my book and do strict pull-ups and I don’t know, get out of debt or whatever. But also, I just installed a new shower curtain rod after the shitty one my landlord put up finally fell down, and y’all, this is the closest to being high I’ve felt in years.
Silliness aside: so much of my path has been uncovering all the ways I get in my own way. One thing I’ve discovered is that I have a say—I can have a say in my life. And one thing that has helped and continues to help me immeasurable is questioning the way I do things and then making a conscious effort to experiment with doing things differently.
I’m suddenly realizing I do have a listicle:
<Queue trumpets>
Dani’s Official 2022 Suggested Resolution List
Learn to love our flaws instead of hate ourselves for them.
Find joy in all the mundane dumb everyday life stuff.
Laugh as often as possible, even if we have to outsource it.
Fall in love! With a person or our art or a soft patch of grass that we go to every day or an animal or a new skill or our cities or our houseplants.
Move so slowly that people on the outside looking in will wonder if we might actually be moving in reverse.
Say no to “adding more to our plates,” and take naps, even teeny-tiny ten minute ones, everyday.
Cleanse our speech of capitalistic euphemisms.
In moments of confusion, look out the window instead of a screen for inspiration on how to move forward.
Stick our noses in every available flower.
Delight in our awkward, idiotic, over-the-top, overly emotional, high drama, hella extra tendencies as reminders of our blessed human-ness; find solace in the truth that we are ALIVE and not robots (not yet!).
Take care of each other.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to make sense of things, or how to stand firm on a constantly shifting underfoot. But if there’s another something I know, it’s that I want to be here, with all of you, exactly as we are, on this planet, at this very time.
Thank you for your eyes on my words. See you Friday for the last post of this strange as hell year.
From the archives ~ this time last year:
SELF MADE is a newsletter for fellow 🌺late bloomers🌺 with a focus on recovery, creativity and community. It's written by me, Dani, a writer, coach, and recovery advocate in San Francisco, CA.
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I want to read your book so I hope you write it. 😘
All of this! I love that when I read it, I hear your voice saying it ❤ Miss you