When Your Body is a Mean Pinball Machine
As I write this, the rain is tinkering against the window, on the tops of cars, on the concrete sidewalk. It's supposed to rain all day. Poor Riot Fest. Poor me, who is having a birthday gathering later today. I had a vision of a sunny, late summer early fall backyard party, with people coming in and out, clumping up in nooks and circles, giving thanks for the blue sky, the air holding us in a genial hug.
But instead we'll be inside, maybe a little crammed, our hair ruined, our bodies humid. We will hug each other and our clothes will be wet. We will bemoan the loss of an ideal.
The loss of an ideal. Gosh, isn't that every day, to some extent? Like when I'm making my morning coffee, and I forget to dump out the old coffee from the carafe, so the new hot coffee is blended with the lukewarm old. Consequently, in that first sip moment, I have lost an ideal. Expectation, shattered.
I am turning 48, which is nothing all that special. I do like the sound of it. It feels sturdy and even. 48 Hours. Was that a TV show?
The thing about the rain today is that it has its own plan. God laughs and all that. The rain's like, Sorry, I know you have this ideal. Some of you may even be getting married today. But hear me out. I have to rain. I have to be here. It's just what's up. So now what?
What if when things don't go as expected, or our plans don't work out, there is a secret message wanting to be heard? What if after we felt all our feelings about the loss of this ideal, let them bloom and die within the shells of our body, we got quiet and listened for the message? (What if everyone at Riot Fest, including the performers, just stood still and silent in the rain?)
I'm trying to get an agent for my novel, Nikki Gets Knocked Up. It's not going well, honestly. Not because my experience querying is unique-- nobody likes querying. Everyone struggles to find an
It's not going well because, I've noticed, my ideal is on a fucking rampage.
It keeps crashing against my sternum. It keeps splattering like a cracked egg down the inside of my throat. It keeps sucking on my heart relentlessly, like my heart is a lollipop and it has a violent sweet tooth. Know what I mean?
The problem is the ideal, rattling around in my body, my brain, like that. A spiky marble on the loose. It's not just spiky it's slippery. Can't catch it. But when I get still like this, writing this, or meditating, I can. I can catch it. A pinball in the cup earning bonus points.
Writing this (the rain has stopped for a few minutes) is my way of seeing this ideal clearly, for what it is: a story. Just another old story. I might evoke this uncomfortable ideal in meditation, so that I can examine it like a gem. Hold it in the pit of my throat, the winning cup. And while I'm doing that, I will be listening. Now that I've written this, I'm ready to listen. To drop it all and listen. What will I hear? I'll tell you next time.