Value and worth are subjective currency
So, I have been struggling with writer’s block for about a week. The irony here is that I have quite a few (well, 11 to be exact) posts sitting collecting dust here in the untamed brilliant nest. It’s getting crowded. And I’m feeling, well, like my value as a writer is a bit compromised because I cannot quite finish any of them. They all started quite brilliantly (if I do say so myself), but then stall out as I hear the question of their worth (or lack thereof) to a reader run laps around my brain.
Meanwhile, life has dealt a few extra cards my direction that have caused me to fold, to pull out of the game and collect my thoughts, hoping for a new deck before I can gamble a seat at the table again. Just not feeling like I have what it takes to play, to compete, to keep up sometimes. What do I really have to offer since so much has been stripped away from me?
And then sometimes gifts arrive — ones you go ask for, and the one that just shows up on your doorstep (or email) unexpectedly, but so much more needed that you even realized until you opened it. Last week friends listened. Today one spoke. She reminded me of a gift I had given her a while ago, that I did not even realize at the time would have such an impact or be worth much more than a fleeting comfort. But more than a year later, it has been re-gifted to me with recognition of its value along with some special brilliance that reminds me why life is always better than it may seem and that while we can always get through anything on our own, it is always better, worth more perhaps, with a friend to hold your hand on the journey. Friendship is one of the most valuable currencies there is.
Here is part of the gift I received today, and I’d like to share because it is so valuable, worth reading several times until it is the ticker tape that encircles any questions of self-worth you may ever have.
Gifts come in many different shapes and values. Love, kindness, forgiveness, and caring (for one’s self as well as others) are gifts that even a pauper can give freely in the present. Value comes from within although the world sometimes conspires to make us believe it is equivalent to money, material things, or the next bauble. Truly believing one’s inner value takes strength and care.
The only gifts that I have for you today (and really everyday) are my love, caring, and sharing one of the most important lessons of my life (look for the beauty and good in the smallest things in life around you). Some days that smallest thing is the best you will get but it is a wonderful reminder of the good and beauty in the world.
And then of course, there is a quote that is very dear to me that I share regularly, words of encouragement from Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear: “Promise me you’ll always remember that you’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”
Brilliant. I may just dust off some of those unfinished bits this weekend.
Why Is Not The Question, It’s The Answer
OK, so if you are reading this, you probably know that I only recently started this blog. Granted, the first post took a couple of weeks to get off the ground; but now it’s moving at a pretty awesome pace, thank you very much. I have no idea what a good amount of traffic should be on a blog (I’m solidly in triple digits now) and, hey, who cares, right? Well, someone (who shall remain nameless because they might feel stupid after they read this) asked me, “Why are you writing that blog anyway? Who reads it?” (Yes, yes that is a slathering of superiority covering anyway that you heard.)
Here is where the English major in me needs to make an overt swap of a misplaced interrogative adverb in favor of a far more useful noun. I write this blog because it offers a place to express the shit that rolls around in my untamed brilliant head (OK, still not completely sold on brilliant, but I’m gonna hold out hope a certain someone was right, even just a little bit). So, I tried to explain that it was a way, not a why — that I really think I am not the only one who wonders some of the same things I do, or questions the same things I do, or that just needs to blow off some parenthetical steam. And, well, if I am the only one who reads it, OK. (But I am not, so there.)
(For the full effect of her next query, picture a squished expression of whatever combined with I’m too ignorant to even know the difference between an adverb and a noun, let alone that WHY can be both.) “And that language, do you know how many times you said fucking in that one post?” (Well, yes, now I do — nine.) “Why did you need to be so vulgar?” (Um, because it caught your attention, made my point, AND I warned you.) Needless to say, I changed the topic as quickly as I could and made my exit.
Because I don’t think she will ever read this (and if she does, possibly all the better), I’ll tell you I feel sorry for her. She’s too uptight to be able to unleash anything uncensored that might be trapped in her head. And so instead she judges me for doing it (and most likely others too). I’m so happy to be (almost completely) on the other side of being affected by the judgement of others, that I can stand confidently in my own skin (freckles and all). I have no idea if what I write strikes a chord with those who have read it. I can only tell you that another part of the why behind the writing is a hope that it might inspire someone else to find their voice, to speak their truth, and to tap into their own untamed brilliance.
Luck Of The Irish
The luck of the Irish indeed. A certain wistfulness occurs for most at the sound of this iconic idiom. History would suggest that the phrase is wrought with irony as the Irish were a spectacularly unlucky race (unless of course existing on a diet of only potatoes for a few decades makes your socks roll up and down). Oh, yes, there was some lucky respite from the spudaciously monotonous menu — impromptu fasting was brought on when there were no potatoes to be found in the fields. Invading conquerors consistently proved to be poor house guests by forcefully occupying the land. Cruelty dished out to the Irish extended across the pond to the United States in the form of ethnic and religious prejudice. My ancestors who came over from Ireland were among many forced to amend their last names — in our case to drop the O from O’Carroll to sound less Irish and blend in with the newly formed melting pot.
So, is being Irish really all that lucky? 
I would argue yes. The tales of torture and woe speak volumes of the enormous resiliency of the Irish — lessons well suited for us all, even today, maybe even especially today since everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.
There is something innate about being Irish that makes us inherently lucky and able to consistently land on our feet when bad circumstances occur. I have had to call upon my own inner Irish endurance to survive the special hell of the last couple of years. But, just like the Irish, I know I am stronger for the experience — I would even say I am lucky to have had to endure the challenges foist upon me for I know I am better because of them. My priorities have never been more in check and my sense of self is approaching awesome.
While it may be difficult to see in the thick of the hell, next time unpleasant or unhappy circumstances make their way into your world, consider how lucky you might just be. Certainly something to think about on this blessed day of Irish celebration.
Good times, good friends, good health to you — and the luck of the Irish in all that you do.
The Audacity To Be Awesome
Well, I survived the first leap of faith. As of this morning, 44 people (not counting me) have actually read my first post. And, wait, even better — THREE have actually commented (and said nice things!). Imagine that, I might actually be able to do this (well, at least those three people might be willing to read the next post — I could just be kidding myself, but I’m writing this one anyway).
So, this leads me to my next thought, which is my ambition to be awesome. OK, not like in that narcissistic, “Look at me, I am so awesome,” Paris Hilton kind of awesome. No, I am talking about the Julien Smith kind of awesome. The man is a fucking genius (click the awesome link, read the article, fucking was necessary, and I might even need to say it a few more times, so prepare yourself). I think I may actually have awesome in me somewhere, crumpled up in one of these boxes of shit in my head. I just need to let it out and stop worrying about what anyone else thinks about the crazy ass things that fall out of my mouth. The filter is gone and it feels fucking awesome (hey, I warned you).
The problem previously, the biggest fucking roadblock to my impending awesomeness (yes, it is a word) has been the yardstick I’ve been using to measure my potential. My first yardstick was handed down by my mother. It had a pointedly-worded mantra shellacked in big, bold, nun-induced cursive letters across it which said, “You never do anything right, if only you would try harder you might almost be worth something — but in the meantime, don’t even bother because you suck and you’ll never amount to anything.” Would have made for a snazzy cross-stitched throw pillow, eh?
I managed to ditch that one for a while, but then, without even realizing it, I traded it in for my not-fucking-soon-enough-ex-husband’s yardstick. He and my mother could have stitched their pillows together — we’ll leave it at that (for now).
I know it happens to others as well, and it kinda pisses me off to see it in action. A friend of mine is an artistic genius — fucking awesome if I do say so (again, warned you). But, he is so afraid to put it out there that this beautiful stuff just sits, collecting dust while he laments his possible wasted potential. Really, ya think? Another friend recently said he didn’t know what he had to offer and some bullshit about shoes he didn’t think he could fill. He’s another fucking awesome human being that needs a new yardstick, or at least to stop worrying about filling shoes. Wear your own fucking shoes, they fit just fine — or, follow my daughter’s lead and just go barefoot everywhere you can (even when you are not supposed to — I do love being a rebel). Imagine how much more we could accomplish, how much happier we would be if we just used our own measuring tools — our own assessment of what was good, perfect, or even just enough — instead of the expectations imposed by anyone else.
So, my new yardstick is my own. It is a beautiful mess of glitter, duct tape, and brilliant quotes tacked all over it to encourage me to have the audacity to continue to try, to do and be whatever I think I can, whatever I want to be. I can only hope it’s fucking awesome.
Untamed Brilliance 