Is life ever truly pretty??? This was my journal entry for 12/11/24, at 11 pm.
Today’s journal entry feels more like a word garbage dump—and that’s putting it lightly, but it’s the best representation of my day that I can muster. I got home late last night, so started this day rushing to get the cat happy before heading to Seattle for my rheumatology appointment. On my way there, I decided to revisit Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic via audiobook. This is my third (or fourth?) time through, and it’s surprising how many parts still feel fresh and relevant. What struck me most this time, though, was realizing how far I’ve come since my first listen—especially in the last two years. A little over two years of singing, to be precise. It’s not just the technical improvement in my craft, but the brave vulnerability that it took to rehabilitate a massive vocal injury to get where I am today, which has transformed me mentally and emotionally.
I had to make these awful noises religiously every day, no matter what dog barked or which housemate was annoyed, until my vocal folds would vibrate correctly (and I no longer felt embarrassed). During that process, I started singing in front of people. At first, I only experienced positive feedback, but as I put myself out there and joined a well-established project, some people did not like it. They did not like me from the start—and I could hear them talking negatively. I saw the behaviors and attempts to recruit the rest of the room, and my recorder captured the comments as well. Some very painful, insulting things I have endured for the chance to hone my skill. I felt like leaving many times. Twice I did, but came back (unnoticed), and I got back up there in front of a mixture of lovers and haters, and belted it out with even more raw, unbridled passion. Now, I find times when the fear that has imprisoned me long before I even had any vocal injury is losing its power over me. Then other moments, when I think of the ongoing sabotage by the haters, I feel my larynx squeeze like a noose, and I just want to curl up in the fetal position in my bed and sleep the rest of my life. But I refuse to defend my limitations, because I don’t want to keep them. I am shoving them out of the way and stomping on them.
I refuse to defend my limitations, because I don’t want to keep them.
And now, even my writing has begun to flow again, after years of chronic illness made it mostly impossible. I am finding my voice in many ways and catching little glimmers of my old friend, Flow. Now, I am striving to carve out time to write daily, even if it’s just a 30-minute free-write—time for myself, no pressure to produce. Just moving the words through me and lubricating those gears.
Listening to Big Magic today really fired me up. I couldn’t wait to get home to start getting an overwhelming deluge of ideas out. I imagined experimenting, writing in different environments and situations—after meditating, qigong nine-breath method, a drive along the canal, or other solo adventures. I imagined how I could make myself more available and enticing for divine inspiration to visit me. I imagined myself with a morning ritual. I imagined getting home, putting on my fuzzy bathrobe, and relaxing with my favorite Tazo Orange tea, just letting my fingers do their thing. But tonight didn’t exactly match the vision.
On the drive back, traffic was endless, and an allergic reaction from last night’s dog encounter embarked on a loooonnnng crescendo—itchy skin, a prickly tongue, burning needles in my eyes, narrowed larynx, labored breathing. My usual car singing didn’t feel possible anymore, so I listened to almost the entire book in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Then came the “quick” errands. I stopped at Costco initially for gas and coffee. Does such a simple in-out plan ever work at Costco? I stumbled into a quest for zinc gummies, and on the direction of an older gentleman, I wandered every aisle in the pharmacy section twice. Finally, the two of us were reading bottles together when I decided upon double-dosing their elderberry gummies—pricey, but necessary. Then I spent time sniffing cat litter options with a helpful young stock boy. I decided against all of them, but what a delightful little bloodhound he was.
Compare prices between apps…yes. Let’s add some butter to the cart, and I checked out with only three items, catching the attention of the nice gentleman behind me in the self-checkout line. He eyed my cart and smiled, eyebrows raised in amusement. Who makes it out of Costco with only three items??? This broke girl. Not knowing which one of us the child in the cart in front of us was waving to, we both waved enthusiastically and then laughed. The boy got two waves for the price of one; even toddlers find bargains at Costco.
But the joy was fleeting. On the way home, I remembered I still needed cat litter and cleaning supplies, so off to Walmart—where, of course, a quick trip turned into more comparing prices between apps, because every penny counts right now. Can I still afford an oil change and windshield wiper repair after today’s expenses? Stress gurgled up like the acid reflux in my throat, all tied back to Boo Boo’s vet bills and the unforeseen bombardment of consequences to his illness, which have all thrown my already difficult life into shambles.
By the time I got home, I was faced with an overwhelming amount of tasks to address. Groceries to unload, tea spilled into my swimming pool purse (again—so this is now its name), more wet electronics to rescue. No meal, no rest. Boo Boo needed care. The dishwasher needed emptying. Then there was the garbage to collect and drag outside—including a noxious, too-heavy bag my mom forgot in the laundry room before she went back to Arizona a week ago, which I had to split up so I could carry it. Yuck. I even found a mystery sterling silver lapis earring crushed on the stairs that I literally just cleaned. Where the heck did that come from?
Finally, I reheated my cold dinner and sat down, only for the phone to ring. Important call. By the time I could think about writing, the energy was gone.
It’s funny how we envision the perfect writing moment: a warm bathrobe, a steaming cup of tea, the misty fog dancing along Hood Canal. Instead, I’m cold, leaning on a granite counter that hurts my elbows, with an angry cat yowling at me and walking across my keyboard. I want nothing more than a shower, but my shampoo bottle is nearly empty (it’s down to that last little bit when you mix water in and shake it up), and I can’t even afford to replace it. Severe allergies mean I have to buy “special” (expensive) everything.
But still, I’m here. Writing this down. Because even on days like this, I’ve learned there’s still value in showing up—for myself, for Boo Boo, and for the messy, unromantic moments that make up real life. It doesn’t have to be brilliant. Just finished. Goal accomplished.
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