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I know enough now to know I know nothing. I am slugging away every day, just like you. But nonetheless, here we are.
So what do I do? What do we do? How do we move forward when we are tired and afraid? What do we do when the voice in our head is yelling that WE ARE NEVER GONNA MAKE IT? How do we drag ourselves through the muck when our brain is telling us youaredumbandyouwillneverfinishandnoonecaresanditistimeyoustop? Well, the first thing we do is take our brain out and put it in a drawer. Stick it somewhere and let it tantrum until it wears itself out. You may still hear the brain and all the shitty things it is saying to you, but it will be muffled, and just the fact that it is not in your head anymore
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Know it was a battle. Blood was shed. A war raged between my jokey and protective brain and my squishy and tender heart.
But Wordsworth stuck with me when he said, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity.” This book is a spontaneous overflow in the middle of chaos, not tranquillity. So it’s not a poem to you. It’s a half poem. It’s a “po.” It’s a Poehler po. Wordsworth also said that the best part of a person’s life is “his little, nameless, unremembered, acts of kindness and of love.”
Decide what your currency is early. Let go of what you will never have. People who do this are happier and sexier.
It takes years as a woman to unlearn what you have been taught to be sorry for. It takes years to find your voice and seize your real estate.
