Week 17…

It is the word that I have on repeat right now as I struggle to write this blog: as I obsessively reread every sentence; agonize over every word choice; look for redundancies and errors before I’ve had time to make them. And it spurs me on when my fingers hover over the keys because my train of thought is pulling out of the station without me.

What stories do we tell ourselves when faced with things that scare us? When it feels too hard to try? And why can’t we harness the power of those stories for good (instead of the evil that we do to ourselves)?

“San Francisco is a lonely city” — that’s what a colleague (also having recently re-located) said when we were discussing our mutual burn out. And, in spite of the tales I related in my last post, I agree with them. To go back to the well of Sondheim, “its a city of strangers, some come to work, some to play”… although Sondheim wasn’t writing about San Francisco, but New York City. In fact, I would posit that most cities are strange beasts where people live on top of each other, pass in and out of each other’s lives at an extraordinary frequency, and yet still feel as isolated as any penguin at the North Pole.

As a middle-aged penguin, I have been feeling that separation more keenly with every passing day. For one thing, my body isn’t able to carry me as far as it once did, so I can’t solo as freewheeling-ly — I need third-places where I can rest, recharge, and reconnect. Moreover, making friends as an adult is tricky if you don’t share the same lifestyle — not because you won’t have things to talk about, but more so because your routines don’t take you into the same orbits. And finally, things cost money, so trying (there’s that word again) new hobbies and ventures tends to involve some small monetary investment.

… All excellent reasons to waddle sadly around the ice and snow; to feel oneself freeze in trepidation; to stop before I even start.

But these are just stories and suppositions. And instead, I need to push aside these rubbish thoughts, and dig out that dusty “try” from the junk drawer of my mind.

This isn’t easy; in fact, these ol’ narratives about how nothing ever works out, and how nobody actually likes me that much, and how society is so broken that it’s a battle every day just to exist, are three Sisyphean boulders all set to tumble down my mental-model of Bradford Street. And because these thoughts have the power to crush me, I’ve sought the help of others (including professionals) to wrest with them. And no matter the therapy, its all boils back down to that single, three-letter word: “try.”

Or, let’s bring in the counsel of another Doctor, one Dr. Seuss: “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

Trying is a form of care — no matter how small, or how often — the willingness to try again is the only thing that shifts these boulders so I can get out of my own way. When I look back on all the times I didn’t try (and there were many), I recognize that it was because I was afraid of making the same mistakes, because that would have meant that I was incapable of change, or that I was stuck in some single state of being. But now I see that in trying, I am compelling that change within me, no matter the outcome — because every time I try, especially when I flop and flounder, I’m not the same Meg I was before. And sometimes (and these are the ones I really need to remember) sometimes when I try, I succeed.

After all, trying is what drove me to sit here in front of my computer and honor my promise to write something every weekend, because I have a voice and a way of looking at the world that is wholly my own. Trying is what gets me back to the gym every week even after I’ve pulled something (OK, I also signed a contract). Trying is what gets me chatting with strangers at a bookstore mixer; and even though we all went our separate ways, that brief hour of talking about something we all loved (books) reminded me there are so many other penguins out there in this lonely city. Maybe, together, we can fly?

Just kidding; penguins are flightless birds… but they are excellent swimmers, which is also something that trying allows me to do: to just keep swimming.

SF Neighborhoods/Places Explored: The Orpheum Theatre; Civic Center; Inner Richmond; Green Apple Books

Soundtrack: /no rainy brew

Bus + Bench Book: The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin (this one is taking awhile — it’s a good book, but requires one’s full attention)

Lesson-Learned: All you need is “Try” (and maybe some therapy)