Muchness and Light

Raise your glass and we'll have a cheer, my dear acquaintance, a happy new year.

It's New Year's Eve, and I'm home with my men, who are doing their geek thing while I do mine.  The younglings are respectively waging war against Emperor Palpatine and editing a digital image of the Mona Lisa to absurd delight.  DH and I are each doing some last minute must-dos before we can all settle into the dark, winter evening. 

Like nearly everyone I know, I'm running through the obligatory retrospection of the year.  For me, it was loud and raucous and wrought with tumultuous exploration.  Are there things I would change?  Maybe, but not much.  Everything I do is a lesson-in-waiting, no matter how arduous the lesson or the waiting may be.

2011 was the year my heart found its voice.  It was often hard-fought, usually boisterous, and sometimes tremulous at best.  But it's mine—no one else's—and I've done everything I can to make sure it was heard when it needed to be, even when I wasn't sure of what it was saying.  Sometimes it needed to be told to shut the fuck up—although it hardly ever listens. 

And I know it has a hell of a lot more to say. 

I have no idea what's coming in 2012.  It's that whole journey thing and not being able to see around the bend.  In some ways, it doesn't matter what's coming; I will deal with it and learn from it and do my best to find it all opportune.

That doesn't mean I don't have plans.  I do.  I have things I'm working on, working for, working toward, and I will try intently to see these things come to fruition.  I will undoubtedly call on some of you for help, as I am well-aware that I can't (and don't want to) get through this life on my own.   

To those of you who've been so instrumental and supportive in my 2011, thank you!  (I know you know who you are.)  Your love and advice have held me up when I absolutely didn't think I could do it myself.  I will still need you in 2012, and I hope you'll still need me, too. 

Last New Year's Eve, I was without my men, watching Man or Astro-man?, sipping cheap champagne at midnight.  This year, I'll probably be asleep on the couch, roused by kisses from the men before I shoo them all off to bed.  I'll wake up tomorrow, get in a quick five miles to start the year, check in with everyone I love, and write.  After all, I have something to say.

And I gotta get it out before the world comes to an end. 

Happy New Year, fuckers!

 

Pardon me if a tear falls among my Christmas cheer.

The last few days in Atlanta have been rainy and stormy and generally nasty.  I went out last night to see Wesley Cook with Angie Aparo at Smith's Olde Bar, with my friend Kristi.  I quickly found myself soaked and ankle-deep in a torrential flash flood.  This morning dawned beautiful; lingering dark clouds were being pushed away by stunning sunshine, when I ran out to get a last-minute Christmas gift. 

On my way home, I was stopped by a funeral procession.

I started to cry.

I have no idea who died.  It wasn't someone I know.  I don't know if they were young or old, healthy or ill.  But there were about thirty cars in the procession, inching their way through a major intersection, flanked by police motorcycles.

Someone is going to be sorely missed this holiday season.

It started me thinking about the people I miss, the ones who aren't with me for Christmas—friends and family alike.  My paternal grandfather tops that list.  He died in March of 2006, and I miss him every single day. 

He was an amazing man, simple and sweet and funny and loving and caring.  He and my grandmother were married for more than 50 years.  They had four wonderful children, seven granddaughters, and two great-grandsons.  My elder son remembers him quite clearly, by my younger was just over a year old when we lost Paw-paw Red. 

He was a Jack-of-all-trades—a welder and an electrician and a fur trapper.  He was also a magician in his youth, and the family was regularly treated to slight-of-hand and funny tricks.  One of my favorite pictures ever is of him eating fire in a tuxedo, as part of his show.  Many of us granddaughters had magic shows by Paw-paw for our birthday parties, and it was always phenomenal fun. 

What I remember most is the twinkle in his blue eyes.  He was always full of good-natured mischief, with a slick wit and quick smile.  He would give anyone anything that he ever thought they needed.  I always knew I'd gotten my flashing Irish temper from him (note the "Quinn" in Stephanie Quinn Jackson).  At his funeral, I also realized where I'd gotten my long thumbs. 

More importantly, what I got from my grandfather was a shining example of how to love the people who matter.  Even though he worked hard, long hours, he was always there with a hug and a smile when we needed it.  He was interested and encouraging and concerned.  He and my grandmother raised the most functional family I've ever personally known.  There were about 300 people at his wake and funeral.  Four different men told me that my grandfather was their best friend.  That is a testament to a life well-lived. 

DH and the boys and I are staying in Atlanta for Christmas this year, for the first time since we moved here.  It will be very strange not to be at my grandmother's house with the huge extended family, and I will miss them very much.  But I know my grandfather would want us to do what's right for our family.  I know he'll be there, and here, with us in spirit. 

And I know each and every one of the Quinn clan will miss him in their own way.  I won't be the only one smiling through bittersweet tears when we think of him. 

I hope the family I saw today finds some comfort in their own cherished memories.  I hope they are able to find some solace in what will undoubtedly be a difficult time.  If you have someone that you're missing this holiday season, I hope your fondest and sweetest memories of them will ease your dismay and help to settle your heart. 

Life is a precious, finite commodity, and we should all take every opportunity to tell everyone we love that we love them and why we love them, to tell them that they matter to us.  Find the people who matter to you, no matter how near or far, and take a moment to tell them that you love them.  If they're far away, a heartfelt phone call or email will matter more than you may know.  If they're close by, pull them closer and don't let go, ever, no matter what. 

Thank you—all of you—for the time you take to read my blog or chime in on my Facebook page.  It matters, a lot, to me that you're there and giving me encouragement when I need it.  I hope you have a wonderful and beautiful holiday with your own friends and family.  I hope you find love and joy, in your heart and others'.

Merry Christmas!

 

They felt the heat of the night and it hit 'em like a freight train, moving with a simple twist of fate.

I'm a firm believer in Fate. 

For ease of understanding (both yours and mine), I'll go with the idea that fate is the inevitable and unavoidable ordered events of an individual's destiny.  Destiny refers to the finality of events as they've worked themselves out. 

Some things are fated in the sense that there's only viable choice, based on all of the previous choices you've made.  This doesn't mean that destiny is predetermined from the get-go; it's not independent of free will.  They can, and should, co-exist.  There's a concept of Micaic Destiny, in which those seemingly-dichotomous notions are harmonious.  The idea is that we make only one unchangeable choice each moment and that inevitable outcomes are possibly foreseeable, though never entirely predictable, because of those choices.  There's nowhere else to go—no other destination—but here because you've come from there.  There's a feeling of significance to these outcomes, though maybe that's trumped by destinies that seem to have nothing to do with your own previous choices at all.

I believe in Fate as an outside, blinding force.  Maybe it's because of other people's choices, maybe it's sheer dumb luck, but it feels like divine intervention, twisting and turning you wildly or slightly.  Either way, you can't help but look at what it wants you to see.  

One of my favorite books is Fool on the Hill by Matt Ruff.  It's this genre of fantasy in modern times, which I totally love.  There's something endearing and relatable about magic in the world I know, rather than some distant, mildly-recognizable land and time.  One of the great characters of Fool on the Hill is Mr. Sunshine.  He's this old dude, a Greek Original, with an infinite number of monkeys, typing away and crafting the story of what's happening to the protagonists.  Sometimes what the monkeys write makes chronological sense, but sometimes, well, it's just Mr. Sunshine sticking his finger into the stillness and stirring, ever so slightly, to make the waters ripple in the way he knows is best for everyone's outcomes.  Fate.

Certainly, especially if I'm bored or distractible, I've been the one to stir my own waters with my freshly-manicured finger.  Every so often, though, these things happen—inevitable, unavoidable, and blinding—that completely alter my path and reroute my journey.  I try not to see them as anything but good, Amor fati, and accept these events, to learn the monumental lessons they inexorably bring.  They are, after all, edging me forward to my own destiny, to Destination Me. 

But the Fates are vicious and they're cruel.  (Monkeys can be a nasty bunch.)  Sometimes it feels as though the thing they're forcing me to turn and see is nothing more than reflections in my own pools.  And when the stirring brings the ripples, the reflection is imperfected, so I stay at the muddy bank, waiting for the stillness to bring its insights once again. 

Maybe Narcissus was onto something.  Maybe he was looking deeper than ancient storytellers and mythology writers gave him credit.  Either way, I guess the cautionary tale of staying too long at the water's edge is still valid.   

And what if we fight Fate?  What if we choose not to look at what it's showing us?  If it's strong enough, important enough, that it's supposed to alter our course, we will feel the slings and arrows of that battle until we concede and let the pain of it all wash over us and through us, surrendering to the inevitability of what we were always supposed to do.  Or else we die.  Unfulfilled, unhappy, uncontent. 

Sometimes it's hard to accept what Fate has to offer; it's hard to be gracious in the face of incomprehensible upheaval.  But I find, inevitably, that what it's offering me is profound and completely worth the initial confusion and discord.  So I may spend a lot of time analyzing what I see, cautiously examining and re-examining—is it tangible or just a bunch of smoke in front of my mirrors?  Even if it turns out to be a watery guise, the inescapable truths—often acute and exhaustive—learned through that time and effort are almost always the most sublime.

 

I do all I am, and it's all I can do, but I'm true.

This is my 100^th blog post on Muchness and Light.  I felt like it should be something retrospective.  The blog, and the writing that came over the last year, were all triggered by a line from Johnny Depp's Mad Hatter in Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland (2010), when he tells Alice, "You used to be much more... muchier.  You've lost your muchness."  That quote sent me on a search for my own lost muchness.  While it's been an amazing year, I've already written about regaining some of my muchness, and I didn't want to be too repetitive.

The search for my self has led me down an incomparably twisted and tumultuous path.  Time and again, I've gone back to the idea of my life being about the journey and not the destination.  DH pointedly asked me a few months ago, "How can you get anywhere when you have no destination in mind?"

I've often set out with a goal in mind, it's hard (and sometimes counterproductive) not to.  But I like to be flexible enough to allow for a change of course when necessary, whether for literal or figurative reasons.  I'm still moving forward, but to what end?

Finally, a few weeks ago, it hit me: the ultimate destination is ME.

The end result of all of this trekking is the truest, most absolute version of Stephanie Quinn Jackson.  One of these days, my heart will stop and play its final beat.  When that day comes, I'll know I've had my heart broken and my pride stolen, but the only person I'll truly have to answer to is me.  I'm the only one who can make the final judgment call as to whether or not I did everything I could to be true—to myself, to my loves, to my life. 

There are days and times when my choices fly in the face of everything and everyone around me.  It's not always easy, and it doesn't always make me or anyone else happy, but sometimes being true, and being Truly Me, is hard.  The easy path from Point A to Point Me isn't always the true path, and I've absolutely been known to take the easiest way possible.  I've had to backtrack from that a bazillion times and go on the way I should've gone to begin with.  What I found, each and every time, is that I would've been much happier, more fulfilled, and gotten just as far, if I'd just gone the right damn way to begin with. 

So I'm not a finished product yet, and I'm glad about that.  If I were done, if I were all Stephanie could be, there would be no point to journeying onward; I could finally sit my not-as-large ass down and just see what passes by me.  Instead, I'm continuing forward and see what I pass by. 

I'll be sure to send a postcard (or a blog post) or two along the way.

 

 

And in that stillness, there was a freedom I'd never felt before.

I've been quiet for a couple of weeks, which is a little uncharacteristic of me.  I was really sick with a nasty upper respiratory thing, and I started a new job.  It's a part-time thing while the kids are in school, boring as hell, but it helps cover the cost of Muchness and Light.

There's also been a lot of emotional turmoil for several weeks.  There's a lot going on with me and in me and around me.  The first anniversary of Muchness and Light came and went on November 25th.  I intended to mark it with a special blog post, but I was caught up in the Thanksgiving holidays and all of the internal drama. 

I put away my fiction rewrites, again, until a better time and started on a much more personal project a few weeks ago.  I'd been writing a lot, consistently, through everything going on.  As is so often the case, writing is cathartic for me; I am sometimes surprised as what I find emblazoned across the screen while I'm trying to work through something.  Honestly, I've been afraid to write, fearful of the truths I might learn about myself and my situation, apprehensive of what choices it might lead me to make.

There have been so many ups and down over the last year, the last six months in particular, and I'm a little weary.  The scales have been swinging wildly from one heavy weight to another, and I needed some time to let them just stop, to find a balance and let that be.  I needed some time for everything to just be still, both in me and around me. 

It's incredibly difficult for me to be still.  I'm a kinetic person, and I like to be constantly moving forward.  Even if I'm in retrograde, I find comfort in knowing it's part of a longer-term forward motion.  And this stillness, this constant central balance, is the kind of happy medium that feels so impossible to me.  It usually takes me a long time to find what others call a happy place, where things are happening on both sides of the equation.  I know that's how life is supposed to be, in the end, but staying in check is boring and unnatural for me. 

So I had to make a conscious decision to be still.  I had to make the concerted effort not to tip the scales in one direction or the other.  I don't know how to do that.  I don't know how not to be in motion.  And writing felt like it might cause ripples and tremors that could ultimately undermine this effort, sending minute shockwaves down the beam and across the pans, shifting me one way or the other. 

Right now, I'm weighing my own trepidation against my deep, visceral need to write.  DH asked me recently what makes me happy, and I immediately answered, "Writing."  It's something I need to do, as much as I need to eat and sleep and breathe.  Even if no one else ever sees what I'm doing, it's something that just has to happen, regularly, for me to clear my own head and find my own insights. 

There's a book I've referenced before, Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, by David Bayles and Ted Orland.  I go back to this book a lot when I'm questioning myself as a writer, uncertain as to whether or not what I'm doing is worthwhile--to me, to you, to anyone:

                In the end it all comes down to this: you have a choice (or more accurately a tangle of choices) between giving your work your best shot and risking that it will not make you happy, or not giving it your best shot -- and thereby guaranteeing that it will not make you happy.  It becomes a choice between certainty and uncertainty.  And curiously, uncertainty is the comforting choice.

In the end, I know my scales won't be in balance for very long.  I have decisions to make and paths to forge.  I will almost certainly choose the path of uncertainty, finding some excitement in understanding the experience of the unknown.  Through all of that, I will write.  I will find my understandings by letting what's in my head come out through my fingertips.  I hope that I will be surprised by the things I find there, on the virtual page. 

I don't know if what I find will make me happy or unhappy, comfortable or discomfited.  I can't see that far ahead right now, I'm trying hard not to push past the fog and make inferences about the future.  But the process itself will bring its own comfort, its own sort of balance against my emotional upheavals. 

So I'm back, and I'm working.  A year later, I'm definitely a much more muchier version of myself.  I'm trying to let that muchness rest and regain its strength, to guide me forward toward the next phase of Stephanie.  I'm moving slowly, very carefully, so as not to tip my scales as dramatically as I have in recent months.  But even if I can't see the sights edging slowly past me, I can feel the kinesis of it all, reverberating gently inside me, pulsing deeply in time to my own heart.