Please Continue Being Awesome, Meghan Currie....

...so that I continue to watch you do stuff like this:

Starting Over. And over. And over. And over.

I am a terrible journal-er.

I have always tried to be a good journal-writer, and in my more angst-y teens and twenties, I was fairly diligent about it.

I wrote
A lot of poems
That weren't really poems,
but just long, long sentences,
that I divided up
into separate lines
for meaning
and

emphasis.

But, as I've gotten older, my journaling has become more sporadic and every year less and less excusable.  In my mind, I always imagine I'm going to be one of those older women with boxes of journals that highlight her artistic and spiritual development. Little works of art that she can pass down to her children and grandchildren.  But, in order for that to be reality, I would have to be one of those women who journaled about all the beauty in her life. One of those people who filled her journal with tiny paintings and detailed descriptions of the blooming orange tree at the bottom of her steps. (I have one of those, btw...it has never appeared in my journal).  Or better still, one of those women who wrote only about her ideas...about projects and images and all kinds of other healthy, adjusted, artistic stuff.

I would have to be one of those women and not, as I am, the kind of woman whose journal is full of awkward diatribes about ongoing neurosis, and the occasional poem;

Still written,
as are all the others,
line by line.
By line.
You can not know,
the power of the line break...
until you've tried it.
Namaste.

So, what I end up with are boxes full of journals, full of weird embarrassing gobbeldy-gook. The idea being, that writing the gobbeldy-gook will get it out of my head and onto paper. But most often what actually happens is that it gets out of my head, and onto the paper, and then back into my head again...amplified. Heh heh.

And the worst part? The journals? The ones in the box? They're all only half-full.

Because, at some point, with every one, the percentage of healthy to neurotic journaling tips in favor of the neurotic, I get embarrassed, I vow to change my ways, and then I realize that what I really need, what's really going to help me turn over a new leaf...is a new journal.

So, I box up the old half-full one, I pull out a fresh brand spanking new leather bound treasure trove of possibility, I breathe a deep sigh of relief, and I start over. Blank page. Fresh start. New me.

Only to have the same thing happen, all over again.

But, enough is enough, people! Sitting next to me on the couch right now, as I type this is, is my current journal. You would not be allowed to read it. I really want to abandon it. I really want to close it up, tape it up, and throw it the f* away. So that I can start over. So that I can pretend to start over. So that I can have the momentary satisfaction of the ritual of starting over. But, not this time.  One of my teachers said recently that the practice of yoga is the practice of focus. Of continuing. Of remaining steady. And if I can't make a positive change in what I'm putting out, even in the small world of this leather-bound book, without having to throw everything away and start over...then what am I teaching myself?

It's easy to start again.  It's easy to toss everything up in the air and feel like the world is just possibility. What's hard is to hang in there. What's hard is to allow yourself to stray from the path, to delve deep into teenage poetry, and then to come back to yourself again. Without punishment. And, without having to get rid of everything that came before.

Am I the Last to Know?

Have you all seen this?

Am I way behind?

This is, without a doubt, one of the most inspiring stories I've heard/seen in a very long time.  I donated to this little love-bug's college fund, and if you've got a few extra shillings laying around, you should to!

The Bully Inside

Alright, I know. I've been gone. I have been, markedly absent, the past few weeks.  Luckily, Blogger is very forgiving. I click back in to login and I don't even get a hint of resentment or "where have you been" eye-squinting from my trusty Google account.  The truth is I've been busy...busy in my secret other life as a (gasp) actor, and busy this week just feeling lousy (both physically and mentally), and so I've been hang-dogging around, not feeling very worthy of sharing.

But now I'm back! Ta-da!

(Thanks for hanging in there)

So, yesterday, whilst in my cold-recovery funk, I went to go see this movie, which I had seen previews for (the previews alone nearly brought me to tears), but had somehow forgotten about and naively went to go see as a "cheer up" film.  It will be uplifting, I thought! A triumph of good over not-so-good! And it is. After it shatters you into a bunch of little pieces and leaves you weeping into your fruit snacks, yes, then it does get uplifting. Sort of.

But, one of the things that struck me as I was watching it was how, when you see some of the bullying on film and the bullies who are doing it, you see that they are just that...bullies. They are, it's so clear, actually much weaker in most cases than the kids being bullied.  One convicted standing of his ground by a targeted kid who figured out his own worth, would probably send said bully running for the hills.  Maybe.  I mean, please forgive any ignorance on my part if you have personal experience with this, I could be dead wrong.  And, I realize in many cases, well, it's just not possible. And no kid should HAVE to learn to stand up for themselves in this way.  BUT, as an adult, sitting safely in my cushy theatre chair, it just seemed so clear..."tell that kid to go to hell!" I wanted to say. "Tell that kid you are not going to take his crap!"

And as I was sitting there, rooting silently for these kids, I realized...I wasn't actually even talking to them. I was talking to me.

I suffered some minor bullying when I was in middle school...nothing like these kids in the film are facing, but it was enough to send me home crying on a regular basis.  I was chubby and a little weird.  I didn't have a lot of friends. I didn't shave my legs. I had a weeks worth of the same outfit, ala Albert Einstein, that I wore nearly every day to school. And, worst of all, I was a bit of a know-it-all. (Example: taking dressing cues from Albert Einstein). So, I suffered. I was teased and note-written about and often ended up eating my lunch in the bathroom in order to avoid having to sit at a table all by myself.

And though I got through all of that relatively unscarred...there is still one bully that even today I still deal with on a regular basis.  One who makes me want to hide under my bed. One who knocks me around and takes my proverbial lunch money and threatens me with all kinds of terrible fates. This bully knows all my weak spots. Knows just when I'm most vulnerable to attack and comes at me with a vengeance.  And the worst part about this bully? She lives inside my own head.

And so avoiding her, is near to impossible.

So, yeah, okay, we've all got some version of this right? That sneaky little a-hole who is just waiting around in there, in the ol' noggin, to tell us that we're stupid or worthless or fat or lazy? Only, these bullies, the ones lying in wait in our cerebral cortex, they are especially pernicious, mostly because they've learned how to disguise themselves as something other.  My bully speaks to me in very quiet grave tones. My bully dresses up like some kind of nasty-tongued guru and tells me continually that she is really just looking out for my best interests and my spiritual development.  But I know it's her by the way she makes my stomach curl up into a tight little knot. That part is unmistakeable.

And you know how I usually deal with said playground-ruffian in-residence?

I deal with her just like most of the kids in this film deal with their bullies.  I try to get her to like me.  I take her punishment and then I try to be cool about it. Or I just put my head down and soldier through because some part of me thinks, way deep down, that she's probably right...I am probably worthless.  And then I curl up into a little ball on my couch and cry and watch Hulu. Because, you know, what's the use? If I go back there, I'm just going to get wailed on again.  May as well cue up another episode of the Celebrity Apprentice and wait for the storm to pass.

But, I don't think it has to be that way.

There must be a point at which, a girl (or a fella) has to learn to stand up to those voices in the head...the ones that are telling her (or him) that there's something to be afraid of, or that she's incapable or unloveable...there is a point at which her better self has to stand her ground and say, once and for all, I AM NOT GOING TO TAKE YOUR CRAP!

Because, here's the secret, people.  Bullies are weak.  Bullies are all air and no fire. And all it takes, I'm learning, is just one moment of decisiveness. And the choice to put more faith in the voices of truth and love and assurance, and less faith in the voices of fear and intimidation.

At least, that's what I'm going to try, the next time that little she-devil comes a-raring to the surface. I'm going to tell her just where she can shove all her little ideas about what I should and should not be doing. I'm going to tell her to go pick on someone else, because I am nobody's punching bag.

I'll let you know what happens...