Forty-Eight and Reflection

I have a problem.

(Just one?)

*squints menacingly* 

I see my time away from my personal blog hasn't dulled the wit of the parenthetical heckler. I suppose that's a good thing, considering the fact that the heckler is born of my imagining of my reader's reactions to my neurosis. So I got that going for me, I guess. But things have been rough, this past year and a half. That creativity that once fueled me has, for the most part, gone dormant. And if you know me, or even if you're familiar with these pages, you know how much of a problem that is for me. Writing is my outlet and, if I have no outlet, all that boils and roils within this dark mind of mine stays there in the shadows. Growing. Festering. Overtaking. Even visits to my "Serenity Point" pictured above haven't helped me to release the growing tempest in my head. 

This past year, despite the incredible joy it has brought me, has perhaps been more difficult for me than I let myself admit. Increased responsibility and forced isolation due to the pandemic took a toll on me, mentally, physically, and emotionally. There were times I handled it exceptionally… but more often I felt like the threadbare toy of child, ready to burst open when the universe applies just the right pressure in all the wrong places. I'm very blessed to have in my wife a partner who doesn't just love me, but sees me. Together with her support I've always managed to stitch myself back up even when some of the proverbial stuffing seeps through the tears in my emotional fabric.

Another year passed, another birthday approaching. I've struggled this year to find a song with which to reflect on my latest life's journey around the sun. How can I find someone else's words to help me reflect when I've so labored to find my own? The truth is, I couldn't. I tried. Nothing fit. Nothing applied. There were no lyrics that cried out to me "this is your life" as I find myself just days away from my forty-eighth birthday. This isn't just writer's block. I've experience that countless times. This is my mind's failure and refusal to tap into that which was my wellspring of self-preservation and perseverance. Trust me, there's a difference.

Part of the problem is the pressure put on myself. The inevitable results of trying to be perfect are failure and disappointment…. Which, of course, just makes things worse. Take, for example, penning this annual introspective. I can't speak for you reading this to say it's something you've come to expect, but it is indeed something I've come to expect of myself. It's tradition. Beginning when I turned forty in 2013, I have, every year, reflected upon the previous year of my life and the journeys undertaken therein. So I have to keep it going, right? No. Of course not. It's my blog. It's my life. I can do whatever I want. I forget that, sometimes. I forget that a lot, actually. But….

There's always a "but," isn't there?

But, writing is my release and penning an annual introspective helps to extract the words that infect my brian like a parasitic swarm. So I do have to write it. Right? Thus is my paradox. And I look at myself in the mirror, sigh, and quote Geralt of Rivia:

"Fuck."

I drifted in and out of consciousness all night last night thinking about this. More unnecessary pressure on top of pressure. Hey, it's what I do to myself. Call it a character flaw. I can't help it. So I get in to my office this morning and try to squelch the screaming in my head with some non-lyrical music. Perhaps by fate I chose to listen to Lindsey Sterling, an upbeat violinist/dancer who rose above the criticisms she faced during her appearance on America's Got Talent to become an incredibly popular, dynamic, and accomplished performer.

And something happened.

Words began to trickle, slowly at first. When I began to peruse some of her videos on YouTube, they began to flow more freely into this stream of consciousness that's now become my birthday introspection of 2021. It's funny, really. I looked so intently to other's words to fuel my own, only to find mine where none existed before.

Okay, that's not entirely true. I did find some words, but as applicable as they may be, their discovery was purely accidental. The video for Stirling's song The Arena begins with the words of President Theodore Roosevelt:

It is not the critic who counts,

not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles,

or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.

Well… shit.

I've listened to the song multiple times already this morning. Let the wave of sound wash over me, and pondered on Roosevelt's words. Then I came to a revelation, and then I started typing. You see, the critic, the man pointing out the stumbles, the one deprecating the doer… is me.

It's all me.

It always has been. Sadly it always will be. One of humankind's greatest flaws is that fact that we will always be our own worst critic. We will forever place upon ourselves unreasonable expectations, and judge our own failures more harshly. We all know this, and it's something I have always known of myself. Notwithstanding, it's also something I always tend to forget.

Year ago I had the Gaelic phrase "ní boínn saoi gonn locht" tattooed on the inside of my left upper arm. It means "there's no wise man without fault." It was meant as a reminder that despite my faults and failures, I'm still okay. It's a permanent lesson I still too often fail to heed as often as I should.

But I am okay. I'm better than okay, despite that which the demons try to convince me of otherwise. In this past year my wife and I welcomed our second daughter into our new home. And yes, parenting two children ages three and under is at times excruciatingly difficult. I've faltered over the last eight months, certainly. And each time I do I place a great weight upon my shoulders as penance for failing to live up to my own expectations and letting that affect my wife and daughters. It's something I am am constantly working on, and will forever continue to work on, and I have to constantly remind myself that at my core I am a good husband and good father and cannot let my self-doubt bid me believe otherwise.

So here I sit, to write, to breath, and to reflect. Despite my own shortcomings, perceived or otherwise, it's been a good year. In many ways it's helped me grow closer to those I love even though the pandemic physically displaced us. I've developed new appreciations for my children, my partner, parenting, and persevering. Likewise I've reveled in the joy of my children's laughter and embraces, and look forward to all the new still to come as they develop and grow.

After suffering the loss of my dog Memphis in March of 2020, we've also now welcomed a new boxer, Stanley, into our family. He too fills a void the depths of which I perhaps hadn't realized. And just recently we've finally be able to reconnect with those from whom we'd been separated this last year. Seeing smiles on our friends and families' faces, feeling the warmth of affection in the hugs we share, all remind me that no matter what faults I conjure with myself, I'm nevertheless surrounded with love and support.

Yes, the pandemic affected me far greater than I previously understood. As Cirrut Ȋmwe tells Cassian Andor in Rogue One, "there is more than one sort of prison… I sense that you carry your wherever you go." Perhaps I didn't want to acknowledge just how applicable those words are to me. It's an ever-present prison of fear and expectation. I just have to remind myself sometimes that I'm the only one that can lock the door, and that I'm the only one with the strength to thrust it open.

Thanks to my amazing wife, the inspiration of my children, and the support of my family and friends, I have that strength. It's taken me a long time to pen these words, but in retrospect perhaps they weren't quite as hidden as I'd initially thought. That's due in large part because you, all of you, have helped me find them.

As I move forward into the next year of my life, I remind myself that I'm the one that matters, the one in "the arena," the one holding my children and kissing my wife and laughing with my friends and family and doing the very best that I can. Not me the critic. Not me the naysayer. And certainly not me who disparages my own self for not being the idyllic version of me to which I unnaturally an unrealistically aspire. They'll all be there, looking down, I'm sure. I will never make them go away fully. but I can push them to the periphery. Because my daughters are growing and learning and ascending every day, and I'm going to be there every step of the way.

It's been a year… but there's so much more. I can't, and won't, promise anyone, including me, that I'll be here on these pages sharing and chronicling as I have in years passed. That's not fair to you, or to myself. But I will try… and if I fail, we'll that's okay, too. I'm still me, and I ain't too bad, all things considered.

I turn forty-eight soon, come what may. Let the adventure begin.

xoxo

J 

PS ~ oh yeah, I almost forgot. If you're not familiar with Lindsey Stirling, you can listen to, and watch the video for The Arena, here: