Tempted To Complain
It's tempting to complain... even for a few minutes, internally, or with someone you trust.
Though I swear by the power of seeing things in a positive light, I certainly know how to complain. I complain regularly. I complain about people who complain. The irony.
How could we not complain? We have entire news channels devoted to everything in the world we have to complain about. We're living through a global pandemic. The government is f**ked. Our kids and parents and grandparents are stressed. Oh and we've been racist our whole lives and made to think we couldn't be. F**k.
On top of all that, I thought of at least 4000 words of brilliant writing today, but didn't sit down to write until 11pm. SO MUCH TO COMPLAIN ABOUT.
I've been down this road before. It's a dry, hollow dead end.
There's no delightful twist to complaining about everything all the time. It's just labelling things that suck and noticing ever more suckage in a vicious cycle of melodrama. Complaining is contagious, too. You do all the work to stay optimistic and grateful, then a single run-in with a complainer drains you of your best juju and what are you left with? Resentment. Someone to blame. Someone to complain about. And just like that, we're spreading complaints like everyone else. May as well just turn on CNN and really go for it.
I've been the complainer plenty of times. I've complained about the complainer probably just as much. As it happens, past complaints are not life sentences. All we have is right now. So, right now I'm going to pivot out of complaint mode and just be alive... I love being alive.
I love that I'm itchy from sawdust and potting soil. I love that the topic for this blog just emerged after a long day of stressing about it--another go-with-the-flow lesson learned. I loved going straight from Ibram X. Kendi's profound effect on my worldview to Mary Karr's poetic Texas memoir. I love that Shane and Simon have a shoot in Malibu at 6am tomorrow, and how quiet the house is before midnight. I love that my fingertips are pink from my latest hair touch up and from slivering red beets into the pad thai. I love that I didn't really worry about social media today. I'm sure it did just fine without me. I love being a dancer who gardens. I love that my life is so utterly blessed and abundant to be able to splurge on twinkly solar powered string lights for the yard. I love that the Dance On Camera Festival went digital this year, and I got my ticket just in time. I love how much writing is inside me, and I love the feeling of turning words over in my mind as the day goes. I love trusting that they will come out when they're ready, as long as I keep setting aside time to write, imperfectly but consistently. I love my writer's group. I love clean eating and taking breaths in the sun.
I love... just being here, imperfectly, not knowing much of anything but following the things I want to get to know... things like love, and worthiness, and the gentle exhale of sleep with no complaints to speak of.