It’s raining where I am this Sunday, which is perfect for a cozy morning of contemplation. As my 34th birthday approaches (this Saturday, April 29) I’ve been feeling very anxious to tidy up the rooms in my mind, to arrive at a place of order and clarity, to be free of my depression and anxiety etc. And quickly!
But more realistically, I’m just trying to approach the day with ease and compassion and acceptance and faith that things can get better, that I can get better. I’ve been going back and forth about even celebrating my birthday — friends have asked what I’d like to do and while it’s nice to be celebrated I think all I really want to do on my birthday is eat, have sex and receive lots of gifts and money. Taurus things.
But I am curious about this reluctance I have to being celebrated or asking to be celebrated, asking for things that I want or need. Like, what’s that about? As I get older, I’ve realized how vital it is to maintain a sense of curiosity about oneself. Especially as someone who wants to create, who has whole cities inside of me. I think sometimes we get complacent or stuck and we cease asking questions about who we are, really. And what is life if not an epic quest for answers?
One thing I know for sure that I want on my birthday (besides sex and money) is to sink into a deeper understanding of myself, particularly my artist self. I have memories of me handwriting and illustrating little Baby-Sitter’s Club style “books” when I was a kid, memories of directing and editing movies in high school, writing and recording songs in my teenaged bedroom. This was how I survived.
I’ve gone through a period of time when I’ve been struggling to create, not because the ideas aren’t there but because, honestly, I’ve felt very hopeless about the world and very doubtful about my ability to survive in it - financially, spiritually, emotionally.
But as my birthday approaches, I’ve been thinking a lot about how art has always been the thing that saved me, before I had any level of visibility, before the precariousness minefield of trying to make a living from my imagination. What I really want for my birthday is something only I can give myself: to put all my sadness and hopelessness into my art, because it is the only thing that has ever truly held my feelings without making me feel like they were too much. Art is expansive, it asks nothing of you but the truth. And it can accept the imperfection of truth even if you cannot. What a relief.
This morning I journaled for two hours, asking my self questions that I. Here are some of of them:
Is regret inevitable?