Monday, February 20, 2017

On tossing off the flannel

I wouldn't have thought that the movie, The Devil Wears Prada, would bring me to my knees (so to speak). Not feeling well yesterday, I binged on Lifetime movies. All I wanted was mindless entertainment, a restful way to wile away the long hours of wishing I felt better. But, alas. Life had something else in store for me.

In the movie, Andy is a journalist fresh out of school, wanting a magazine job (I relate, big time). She takes a spot way out of her league -- not better, just wildly different (still relating). She learns a lot of hard life lessons along the way about loyalty, betrayal, ethics, and...spoiler alert...ultimately she fine tunes her moral compass (relating, still). She ends up taking her seat at the write (right?) writer's desk...showing up for the work she has cherished and longed for.  She arrives where she's supposed to be.

At that moment, I burst out crying. Yes, I was wrapped up in a flannel blanket and my resistance was low. I was going nowhere. Fast. But I think what I saw in that moment is that I've been wrapped in flannel, in terms of aspirations and so many things, for a long time. I recalled that amazing-beyond-words feeling of taking my seat at the writer's desk, eons ago. I remembered the utter joy of being welcomed by editors and teachers and family and friends and mostly, myself. I knew deeper than I'd ever known anything where I belonged. What a feeling to no longer be lost.

I cried yesterday because I'd forgotten all that. I cried because I'd lost that feeling. And I cried because I wanted it back, and didn't even know I was lost, again. What was once brand new, can never be so shiny again has been my mantra. The fantastic performer Peter Allen would differ with his lyrics, Everything old is new again. And so, maybe?

Right now, George Benson's Breezin plays in my background, proving Allen's words. My favorite jazz musician of the 70s and 80s, has come back to life in my blanket-half-on-half-off world. Maybe my utterly, dizzyingly shiny new/old thing is write (right?) in front of me, no messing around, no whining that I'm not in the mood.

Argh...so hard to drag myself to the chair (which by the way I'm already sitting on). So hard to believe joy may follow. So hard to do even if joy doesn't follow. There are no guarantees, not one, not a penny's worth, when one tosses off the flannel for whatever their heart calls for.

I loved those tears I cried yesterday, the depth of emotion, the unblanketedness of it all.

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