3 in 30: Why I Must Do.My.Art.

Airplanes make you think.

I knew from the start that I'd have a hard time keeping up with my 3 in 30 project. I dislike my habit of losing steam. I knew that my last installment would be based around the concept of "careering" and I knew I needed time to really think about it. This third part is based on a realization I had while running (see #12 here). It's about what I NEED to do with as far as a job or a "job," but I also knew that I would take it up clumsily.

But, I am going to do it. I just have to. I must. It's hard. So, I take a diamond of advice from Cheryl Strayed--"Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig."

But very simply, what I without-a-doubt gotta do is, "do my art." My crude little mantra bounced into my head as my feet rounded a Northeastern curve of Lake Merced. All of my life I've been storytelling, crafting, considering, making up, thinking, scribbling, throwing, creating. Like many of us, I did it so much more when I was younger--wondering in a couch-cushion fort at age four and wondering at four a.m. in my college dorm. I made a promise to myself sometime in high school after waking from a dream with an idea. In the middle of the night, I flicked on my lamp and write down the idea, which I've completely forgotten, and lay wide awake for hours after. During that time, I promised that I would always try my wild ideas, write them down while saying "fuck it" to sleep if I had to, share them with the world. No excuses. For the most part, that hasn't happened to me in about six or seven years. About the time when I started working full time. I broke my own promise to myself. Let myself down.

My favorite succulent, which grows as slowly the rest.

I'm happy with the small, but growing, body of work out there that a few people might have read. And, when I say growing, I mean it's growing like succulents. Over a happy spring, you'll notice how quickly tulips and daffodils bloom and wilt. But succulents take their time. Sometimes they turn ruddy and gaunt but then a brilliant storm fills them and they're verdant and voluptuous again. They grow slowly and deliberately. That's my writing. I love it, I don't tend to it enough, and yet I'm blessed with a storm every so often. It's time for me to take those storms into my own hands.

I feel terrified that I will keep making excuses and never sacrifice luxurious comforts to do it.

"Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig."

-Cheryl Strayed

Right before Christmas I lost my job to company-wide layoffs. I knew about it the day before my 31st birthday, so I had two months to prepare to be jobless, to get myself psyched up for a month or so of freedom. Of visiting family, packing and cleaning my apartment, sleeping in, preparing elaborate lunches for myself followed by elaborate dinners for my husband and I, running a wandering we'll-see-far-I-can-go route and possibly ending up somewhere in San Mateo county only to drag myself back to San Francisco on the CalTrain stinky, achy, and more badass than ever, and writing, writing, writing every other hour of the endless days. I had two months to plot all of this, my "do my art" life plan. 

Since being jobless, I feel like I'm running on a hamster wheel. I'm tired but can't get off the wheel. The anxiety that I might miss a job or an apartment opportunity if I don't apply immediately and then the guilt when I can't bare to write a third or fourth cover letter in one day or speak on the phone about all of my alternative income. Guilty when I just want spend the day reading. The embarrassment and frustration I aim at myself when I see that I've made a mistake. Uploaded the wrong cover letter to the wrong posting. Spelled "messenger bag" incorrectly in a writing sample. All of this is self imposed. (Ah, I said it!)

Why am I like this? I'm the girl who always does her work on time and works hard enough to justify or earn free time. The little girl whose parents were told by her teachers "I wish I could keep Angela in my class forever!" and whose parents tell her "We're so lucky to have you." The girl who disappoints when she fails Algebra and lies about where she was after school.

I'm flying to the East Coast to meet my niece for the first time. Today is her first birthday. My parents are getting older, too. I found round-trip ticket from coast to coast for under $300. And, I mean, it's not like I have a job (but I keep thinking that my job is to find a job, and by the California EDD expectations it is, but even that job has got to have weekends and vacation, right? Gah!), so I can travel for a few days and see my family while I can. While they're young and healthy.

As I waited at the gate for boarding, I watched a woman across from me knit. If you know me, you know that my other quiet hobby after running and writing is knitting. This woman had those beautiful wooden, rainbow stained needles I covet and was speedily forming a fluffy ivory-colored sweater. If you know me, you're wondering why I didn't bring my own knitting. I thought, as the woman set down her needles pointing precariously upward, that knitting needles were illegal on planes. Only terrorists carry knitting needles onto planes, right? That's what I thought, and I thought I was just following the rules. Always such a good girl, following the rules.

I've been following rules that don't exist.

The girl that always followed the rules.

Inspired by my friend Megan's recent post on the one word blog challenge, I am taking one up. My word is short and sweet. It's ME. I choose it because I'm afraid of not doing what I want, what I know I should do, what is purely me. I fear that I'll end up putting all of my efforts and skills into full-time, well-paying job and feel empty by five p.m. That I should just "quit these pretentious things and just punch the clock" to borrow an Arcade Fire lyric. That I'm selfish for not contributing my skills to society (the workforce). I'm afraid of missing a job posting that could offer me stability and that I'll actually take it and be miserable.

So what am ME doing about this? I'm reminding myself that it's "Okay to take a break," as my husband lovingly and calmly told me over and over after my freak out last evening. I'm leaving my planner and three other job-related notebooks at home when I got out. I'm not going apply for 1 single job or look at Craigslist for even 1 apartment in Portland or anywhere. I'm going to make my own hours, eat BBQ at the Charlotte airport in about three hours, and anticipate seeing my niece's kind little grin in person and be that guy who Instagrams the heck out of it. If I drive anywhere, maybe I'll run a red light. WHO KNOWS. THE GLOVES ARE OFF. WATCH OUT SOCIETY AND HIDE YOUR STUPID RULES.

I must rekindle my promise. I will carve out significant time to work on that project that is truly unique and not yet existing in the world. What is truly ME.

In long-distance running, when you want to finish a certain amount of miles and feel like you can't, you do. You don't stop. You mine the coal. You do your art.

My 2015 is about me, but really it's about "do my art."

How about you?