a bit of philosophy (bear with me)

A wise friend said something in conversation nearly a year and a half ago, and it is still with me. I keep thinking about that moment. She said, “your life is your art”. In other words, you are your own work of art; we live to actualize what each of us believes to be beautiful.

There are so many reasons this rings true, and I have been pondering it a lot lately. For one, the creation process in art – and in life – is painful. I have heard many a friend or artistic acquaintance expound on how “true art cannot be achieved without pain” - just as the full and accomplished life is not obtained over years of sunbathing by a pool. There is work involved, and personal pain and sacrifice. There are countless failures and the smallest moments of joy.

And it all takes time. The process of creating a beautiful life is never brief. Some friends and I were discussing Brad Pitt a few nights ago, and one of them pointed out that he is 45 years old. He is nearly twice our age. When he was 26 (my age), he had a small role in “Thelma & Louise” which, I’m sure, is a fond and funny memory for him, but not nearly the type of role that aligns to my understanding of who he is as an actor. His most definitive career moments, in my opinion, probably did not begin until he was at least into his mid-thirties (“Fight Club”).

Despite these sorts of examples, we all still seem to think we are supposed to achieve greatness before age 30. I sense a growing fear among my peers of the approaching infamous birth date – that it is somehow an endpoint, after which the focus will be on other things and we’ll have missed our only shot at actualizing our dreams.

I do admit that I am nervous about the large portions of my “canvas” that remain blank. The parts I have sketched out don’t always seem to make sense with each other. I have erased and started over a few times, and I don’t know - if I were to step back - whether any of it would seem beautiful.

But the point is that we are all moving toward something, which each of us will come to define for ourselves. We may have no concept of what our art will look like in ten or 20 years, but we should be confident that it can only keep getting better. There is no deadline for self-determination, there is only the possibility of greater beauty.

apologies

I have been spending most of my free time these days working on this. I do plan to post a new entry here soon, though.

quelling

Tonight my roommate and I walked to the drug store, after an extended back-and-forth whinealog about needing toilet paper and sandwich bags, and who should go get them. We agreed to slog through the muggy early evening together, and appease each other with frozen custard on the way back.

The custard stand occupies a corner storefront on Belmont Avenue, and summer evenings find it air conditioned ice cold and crammed with sticky bodies. The side of the building runs back up the street perpendicular to Belmont and a few benches and trash cans line the sidewalk surrounding a small red-awning-clad walk-up window. Thinking ourselves to have outsmarted the crowd stuck in the winding and awkward line indoors, we sallied up behind a father waiting to order his kids a treat.

The younger of his two boys, curly-brown wisps of hair framing his gleaming face, was excitedly tapping his hands on his father’s thigh as the attendant placed the previous customer’s confections on the sill. Chocolate custard with brownie bits and gummy worms, vanilla custard with cookie dough, a junior hot fudge shake – the small child’s tongue curled uncontrollably around one side of his lower lip as his face turned upward.

His feet began to tap. I watched the child’s face as his father ordered a cup of chocolate custard, and the way his expression changed from general ice cream excitement to the realization that his dreams of sweet cold creamy bliss would be realized – that chocolate cup was for him! His weight shifted from one foot to the other at a quickening pace, and he shook his hands in the air, mimicking the idle shake one might employ to dry the hands after washing. His tongue was still out and his face fixed on the light emanating from the window, as his entire body betrayed his excitement.

At that moment, it occurred to me that I felt the very same way. I felt exactly the same about the chocolate custard that I was on the verge of having for my own. I could not wait! It was going to taste so good!

But no hand-flip-flopping-tongue-lolling ice cream dance for me. I quelled this feeling and stood and smiled. I pointed him out to my roommate and we laughed. He was so sincere and unaware; we knew he had been thinking about that ice cream for a good long time.

Throughout our meandering lives, we negotiate our instinctual reactions to every sort of new event and personal experience, learning to recognize that our emotions – from pure ice cream joy to kicking-screaming tantrums of angry frustration (another scene I witnessed this week at Starbucks) – are something that we are able to, and must, allay. Grace is emotional maturity. It is a rare possession.

Most recently, I have grown aware of my capricious tendency to chase lofty goals, considering only vaguely the practicality of my choices, then changing my mind altogether a few months later. I look back on a career path that seems most closely to resemble, metaphorically of course, that of a curious dog: following one “scent” so intently, only to pick up on another one, alter his course completely, and earnestly follow his nose until the next thing strikes his fancy.

I want to think there is something that ties together all my disordered yet earnest wandering (the dog does, ultimately, make it around the block, right?) I feel I may be on the verge of finding it, and I know part of that has to do with quelling.

A few days ago, my excited brain picked up on something. Why not, I asked myself, pursue a career in asylum law and join the Free Tibet movement and work with refugees and publish articles and tour the country and save the world and learn the Tibetan language and start practicing Buddhism and be the one to finally, personally, give China the big old boot? And right away this time, there was another part of me that sighed and rolled her eyes. There are many reasons that, although it would be a very noble path, it is not the one for me.

It is the hot fudge brownie sundae with sprinkles. It sounds so good. But I know I would rather treat myself, gracefully, to something else.

in with the old

There is a thought I have been mulling over and around, something I have wanted to explore but haven't been sure the proper format or style with which to meditate on the issue. But just now I was reading about these "new cities" - Shenzhen and Dubai - and they struck me as emblematic.

For years I have wondered when this generation's fascination with all things 'retro' would subside. Being an unavoidable member of said generation, I will certainly admit to being of the same mind. Old cowboy boots, vintage dresses, antique boudoir, retro-print hand towels: I got 'em. I am only now, however, beginning to understand, perhaps, why I like them so much.

Think of Europe - the way the folks there harken back to better times, the way Americans tour around and gasp and wish we had that kind of living history at our fingertips, and are convinced that the Renaissance architects and painters and writers really knew how to live. Then we come back home and put on an old Dylan record, and lace up our Chucks, and walk down to the dive bar with the orange and brown upholstered chairs and Schlitz beer (it's back!). Maybe we even bring along a pair of big aviators for the walk over. Or just for style.

But what style? The style of our parents. The style of our grandparents. Quaint and appealing, yes. But why? What happened to The Present?

So along come China and India, building their new cities around all the little old towns and settlements (kind of like we did in the U.S.). Constructing the shiniest, tallest, and most different-looking architecture you've ever seen. "They want to make everything new" because they are the future of economic and cultural hegemony and they know it.

Could it be that Americans are finally letting go? We'll just bask in our memories of the good days - the infant days of Rock 'n' Roll - when we had it going on, we think. We're the new Europe. We brought a lot to the world for a few centuries, and now it's someone else's turn. Is that it?

taken out of context

I think it is necessary to spend some time with your self every so often, to know one's self... if that is ever possible. Just as soon as I think I've learned something about who I am, I tend to prove myself wrong. And it usually has to do with context. Here is the thing -

Last night I went to a party with some old friends. Friends from my old job, I should say - the Big Four job. And they are all doing well... in the monetary sense. Yes, there are a few who are finishing up law school and business school and thus are not technically "in the money", but are on a certain and well-laid-out plan to arrive at "the money". I am not concerned for their well-being, let's just say.

So here I was. Sans made-up face, sans elaborate strappy heels, sans well-fitted jeans. I did have with me: some groceries from Trader Joe's, my piano music in a beat-up messenger bag, and a new haircut (although it needed a wash). And as I described "what I've been doing" to various old acquaintances, and tried not to talk about money - I have a tendency to exclaim about things that cost far more than they should, and brag when I've snagged a bargain - my mind began to wander. I thought about their nice lifestyle, and how I could actually get back on that track and be in their shiny pointy shoes if I wanted. And for a moment, I did want it, which was strange.

What is it about the mentality of a group, the phenomenon of being surrounded by people who are all somewhat alike, that makes you decide you want to be like them, too? It is frustrating for me to look back on various moments in my life when I made decisions based almost entirely on what the people around me were doing. And here I was in that situation yet again.

I wonder this: do we truly choose our friends and make our own choices? Or, in some ways, do our friends and our choices find us? And is there ever a way to truly be an individual, or are our actions forever governed by the strongest personalities in our nearest vicinity? I don't necessarily think there is a right or wrong in this realm, but I do find it fascinating.

That I actually, quite seriously, considered applying to law school last night.

get scared

I like this. I like when "new studies" uphold my you-have-to-do-the-thing-that-scares-you philosophy.

I must say, however, that I don't like that it falls under the 'business' section in the Times, or the fact that the expert on this issue is an "executive change consultant". That phrase makes me gag. I don't think I could say it out loud without literally choking.

Consultants and business-people like to state the obvious. So maybe, by that logic, everyone must already know that it's healthy to try new things and stimulate your brain every once in a while. It would be nice if everyone already knew that. Would render this post - and, indeed, this entire site - quite superfluous.

stand back

This week I was reading about the history of Western thought and then I was looking at nytimes.com (which, certainly, plays its own small role in the history of Western thought) and something intrigued me about their "most blogged" list of articles. Not about the list itself, but about the fact that it exists and how I was sure there was a very telling sociological / anthropological study in there somewhere - about the type of people who read the New York Times online and the particular articles they are interested in. For example, the "most blogged" story today was about high gas prices, which could be interpreted to mean that most online readers either own cars or rely heavily on crude oil... or are environmentalists encouraging their readers to be independent of oil, or... Whatever it means, I was bemused by the way my brain instantly tried to make sense of the data presented. It was how I was trained in college - look at all the facts and information and numbers, and make it make sense!

I thought about how when we are young, there is a point at which the world becomes overwhelming. When we travel for the first time, for example, we begin to understand ourselves as part of a larger world, and we realize how very much we do not know about who we are. So we try to make sense of it all. I used to think it was funny, in college, the way we existed in our removed little microchasm - discussing our lives in theoretical terms that ended in "-ization", spending hours on a math problem without writing down a single number. My roommate once said, we all have our own models for understanding the world, and everything we see, hear, experience, has to fit into that model somewhere. We choose a mode of interpretation - our college major, supposedly - and this is how we process the overwhelming amount of information to which we are exposed.

Lately, I have begun to question this codification in favor of a new philosophy: observation and acceptance. I simply find the world fascinating as it is. Perhaps it is because I have not been able to fully commit my mind to any one methodology; and springtime and a recent bit of good fortune have inspired me to see everything as beautiful and unique and worthwhile. If I could step to the podium for a moment, I would say this: it is time to step back. Stop trying to force things to make sense, just listen, watch, absorb. It takes concentration and effort, but I believe it will bring peace to this Western world.

time spent, time wasted

I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, sitting on the train or in my room or at my desk at work... just sitting and thinking. And it hasn't gotten me anywhere, really. I come up with ideas of essays I want to write, but I don't write them. I think of tasks I need to complete, but I don't do them. I even - finally - got a job offer after spending hours and months assembling applications and going to interviews and thinking about what I want out of life and assessing the types of things I would be qualified for, and I don't think I am going to take it.

I wondered today whether I have that condition that they are talking about these days - infomania. It is actually a real thing now, they've done studies. Basically, a person receives too much information at a constant rate and it causes the IQ to decrease, by an average of ten points. I think email and the internet are making me sick. Maybe, though, if knowing is half the battle, I could be halfway toward normal again. Let's hope so.

I'm going to go write some lists and stare into space now. That should get me somewhere.

creative brews

I came across this great weekly while I was doing some research for an article on Chicago microbreweries. Talk about different and imaginative... and yummy!

someplace

I visited New York and Philadelphia this past weekend, places that are "destinations", and I saw things that people "know about" - Little Italy, SoHo, the Brooklyn Bridge, the LOVE statue in Philadelphia, boathouse row - and I felt like I was somewhere.

It's funny, from the North Lawndale neighborhood (where I teach creative writing at a GED Learning Center) you can see the skyline of Chicago. Standing at the Central Park platform this morning, then passing through the Kedzie, Western, and Damen stops, I noticed the angle is just perfect. The Sears Tower is in the forefront, the Hancock off in the distance to the left, the AON jutting up between them. This is what people travel to see, and for us it is just part of the usual landscape.

But what struck me most about these sights - this weekend, and this morning - was what people are not there to see, what they avoid on their vacations. Between Philadelphia and New York, the landscape stretching on either side of the train route is filled with trash, rundown buildings, desolate towns, junkyards. In the "greater" part of Chicago - that which is not the museum campus, the Loop, Michigan Avenue - lie the neighborhoods, millions of people, homes, lives, stories. And a lot of the Chicagoans' stories I know, never come close to the top floor of the Sears Tower. One woman in my class has lived on the same street, Fillmore, for her entire life.

I wondered, where is somewhere and where is nowhere, and how do we get there and how do we leave?

a quote

my mother sent me this: inspiring, albeit a bit heavy

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do... It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same."

- Nelson Mandela

during the down-time

This morning I waited at the 'L' station for a delayed morning train down to Lincoln Park, where I would open up the front double-doors to the music school and let the children enter and be taught. A 30-something man stood across from me in the station, laptop bag in hand, long wool coat, fumbling with a pair of ubiquitous white earbuds as he cursed under his breath about the train's tardiness. I could hear the music faintly once he'd gotten the wires untangled and placed the headphones in his ears. I watched as he craned his neck to look down the tracks, with an angry brow and a foot tapping - not certain whether this was to the rhythm of the music or the pounding of his rising blood pressure. He looked about my age.

Friday night I attended an up-and-coming rockstar's concert; he is also my age. I knew him, actually, back at our first job at the movie theater. We were 16 and 17 and stole popcorn and snuck it by the paper cupfull to the back room, where we would douse it with "butter-flavored topping". On the Fourth of July, we climbed up climbed up the secret ladder to the roof with some of our co-workers and watched fireworks displays going on at parks all around us. We had so few worries then. We were kids.

I learned of his stardom during a long afternoon of losing myself here and there on the internet, when I came across a video of him singing back-up for a major hip-hop artist on Letterman. I hadn't thought about this friend in years, but I soon found myself remembering intermittent hilarious and poignant teenage moments from those four months I worked at the cinema (before I moved on to better things at a corporate coffee shop). What a surreal moment, then, when I saw his face for the first time in ten years: outlined by soft red and blue lights; flanked by two keyboards, a drum kit, and a bass player; sweaty behind a mic stand, elevated on a stage. I had waited through two opening acts for him, and here were all these people around me - college students, tattooed music fans, girls who had dressed up for the occasion and were winking at each other and blushing - to see my teenage acquaintance. Over ten years, this young man has become soulful and captivating. And, though his looks have hardly changed, his demeanor is serious and passionate.

After the show, I came across the rockstar in the venue lobby and I paused to say hello and exchange a friendly word. During the fifteen seconds I stood in front of him, four or five other young concert-goers approached, reaching around me to shake his hand. His eyes flicked back and forth from me to the sea of faces - no doubt attempting to find his publicist so he could get to the merch table and sign some CDs. I gave him a pat on the back, he gave me a half-smile, and we both moved along.

In my little world, I like to believe that art is a window to the soul and that humans can all connect through the exchange of creative expression. This is why the rockstar's lyrics give us goosebumps; this is why we sing along. But I was struck by our franticly short exchange that night, and the thought that most of his interactions with other human beings are much like this: quick eye-to-eye contact, a handshake, a sideways glance, and he's off.

Today I remembered something my father said about Bob Dylan once. We were discussing the way his writing touches us - dad even shed a tear recalling one of the most heart-wrenching ballads - and how perfectly and simply he could state a problem; he's a writer who can make you see the world exactly the way it is. My father had been a bit disappointed, however, in the recorded interviews Dylan had given over the years. It seemed that someone with his talent for words should have been able, at the opportune moment, to provide eloquent answers to all the tough questions - but this was not the case.

The man in the 'L' station, Bob Dylan, and my rockstar friend are examples that speak to the difficulty of being an artist in a culture where music has become a distraction and a commodity as much as it is an art form. Apparently, what many of us want is simply to be entertained during the down time between grabbing a morning Starbucks and pushing the revolving office door. Or we want something nice to look at. Or we need someone larger-than-life to give a voice to our deepest fears and concerns. Whatever the case may be, it seems that the larger one's audience grows and the more people whose souls have been touched, the further removed the artist becomes from the people who believe in him or her.

It's one luxury that my peers - the young professional on the 'L', the touring rockstar - who are living the most luxurious of lifestyles cannot afford: the time and space to tap one's own creative energy. Back when we were normal kids, working our first jobs, taking music lessons on Saturday mornings, going half-zies on a Little Caesar's pizza - without career goals, an office to get to, CDs to sign - we had the kind of down-time that I imagine the rockstar must miss. Then again, he is crazy famous, which is something few of us would complain about.

what will they do next?

I learned of a funny thing this week. It's about characters. And it's about people, too.

Sometimes when you create characters and you start writing them into a story, they take on a mind of their own. They are no longer you, and they start telling you what they are going to do next. It is very surreal. I thought I was writing a story about a Mexican archeologist and a Scotch enthusiast comparing notes on the finer qualities of tequila, and it turned into something completely different. How did that happen?

We all have learned the lesson that it is impossible to make another person into who you want them to be. What's funny is that the same can be true of fictional characters - of your own creation. Fascinating.

the new renaissance

1. Three weeks ago I attended the first class in a six-week session of creative writing workshops at the U of C. The seminar is classified under their school of continuing studies, so many of my fellow students are adults with careers who are taking this class for fun, or to pursue something that has always interested them but taken a back-burner to their working and family lives. As we went around the open rectangle of tables and introduced our selves, I became acquainted with all kinds of people in several different fields - finance, insurance, non-profit, teaching, self-employed, the list goes on. Many of them said they were looking for a creative outlet. None of them said they were considering a complete career change to pursue writing full-time. This gave me pause.

2. Earlier this fall, I was at home discussing current events and popular culture with my grandparents over Sunday dinner (as is our custom), and someone brought up the film "Into the Wild". I still have not seen the movie, but my grandfather made a comment that struck me. He said that it was poignant how completely the protagonist had given himself over to living a new life; it was so youthful, my grandpa said, to make such a sweeping life change and to follow your heart, refusing to consider an alternative once the decision is made.

3. Yesterday, on the radio, I listened to an interview with a jazz musician - a native of Chicago who, during his time, had revolutionized jazz music by composing pieces with highly unique time signatures. Toward the end of the program, the musician was asked about his other hobbies. He said he was also a painter, and the interviewer urged him to explain whether he believed the two different forms of creative expression were related in his mind. In his response, he mentioned that Miles Davis had also loved to draw and several other musician acquaintances of his were multi-talented. So I wondered to (out loud to myself while driving along) if I had ever seen any of Miles Davis's alleged drawings.

Then it occurred to me: the fame of his - or any successful artist's or thinker's - side-projects is irrelevant. What is interesting is that human beings are enthusiastically pursuing disciplines other than the one field that sustains them. My fellow classmates at the U of C and the character who goes "Into the Wild" represent two ends of the spectrum.

Perhaps the stars have been encouraging me to pursue the multiple arts and disciplines that interest me and to stop feeling torn between them. We could all be Renaissance Humans, right? It seems a healthier way to be, maybe it would do us some good.

tragedy

This past weekend, I watched Brokeback Mountain twice. I hadn't seen it since it was in theaters, and I had hesitated to watch it again because of the intense emotional reaction I had the first time around. But Friday night rolled around and I was doing laundry and my roommate had the DVD rented from Netflix, so there we were. I was amazed all over again. The film is so wonderfully acted, directed, composed visually, everything. So on Saturday night, I watched it again.

All day Sunday and Monday, I was thinking about it. Toward the end, the film touches something so unbelievably human - there is a scene where Ennis is sitting alone eating pie and drinking coffee in a bus station, and of course the final scene where his 19-year-old daughter tells him she is getting married. It is just so beautifully heart-wrenching, and Heath Ledger - god - is so amazing. I really think an actor cannot be that good unless s/he is tapping into something deeply emotional within his/her self.

I cannot get this image out of my head:


What an incredible talent he had - the ability to flood each of us with a sensation from the deepest parts of our hearts. I felt a genuine loss yesterday for a wonderful artist, a truly talented human being.

... I just found this article, echoing my exact sentiments.

fight or flight

A week before Christmas I stopped in at the paper supply store – the place where they sell you solid colored envelopes and notecards, ink pads, sealing wax, kits to build your own gift boxes, and paint-pens to color in your own holiday greeting cards (with the design already outlined on the front). They have everything to make you feel like the creative artsy person everyone wishes they were, which are the kinds of things that sell very well on Armitage Avenue in Lincoln Park. We all know it’s easier to buy a project and do it than to think of one yourself – and it certainly helps the neighborhood ladies that the store’s got a little extra space to park your triple-wide stroller while you browse.

I was working out whether I was going to pay $3 per card for something that required me to invest still more time coloring everything in – this, on top of finding my cousins’ addresses out in Denver and DC and wherever they all are these days and I was thinking I might as well just get discounted cards at Hallmark the day after Christmas and call it a day; I was already late on the whole thing anyway.

And then I saw her. Melissa had been a colleague of mine at my first job out of college. We worked together as business analysts for a corporate management consulting firm, and throughout the twenty months I lasted there, Melissa’s presence was the reason I could not be satisfied. I had ups and downs at that job, and I would be on the verge of quitting for various reasons from time to time. Ultimately, it was nothing other my conviction that I could not be associated with anyone like Melissa James that brought about my final resignation.

Melissa was a sweet girl, really. She had been the president of her sorority at Northwestern or somewhere, and she coordinated firm-wide volunteer activities every quarter or so. She was interested in non-profit management, and I’m pretty sure that is what she is pursuing at present; more power to her. There were two most essentially and frustratingly unfair things about her, though. One, she came off – on your average first meeting, first-impression – as the dumbest rich girl you’ve ever met. Two, she moved in – quickly – on the one firm partner who remained an attractive and eligible bachelor. Despite the first and largely due to the second, Melissa was hugely successful as a business analyst. Oh, and one other thing – she refused to take public transportation. Grr!

I had learned, via Facebook a few days prior to the whole paper-store episode, that Melissa and her Consulting Partner boyfriend were engaged. When I saw it on the newsfeed, my brain had a mini anger spasm and I think a small invisible puff of smoke may have escaped over my head. I flashed back to that constant feeling whenever I saw her around the office, my need to scream, “doesn’t anyone see that she took this job to get her M.R.S.?!” and feeling sorry for all the competent and immeasurably more intelligent-sounding, well-spoken candidates who lost the job to her.

So when I saw her in the paper store, I did what any normal individual on my high-horse would have done. I hid behind the rack of rubber stamps. I could hear her squeaky, child-like voice and I cringed. Then I bolted for the door, nearly knocking over a few holiday-happy moms giddily discussing the Hanukkah-themed project boxes in the front corner of the store.

As my long and powerful strides took me down the street, passing everyone in a huff, attempting to “walk it off”, I thought about these brushes with our past. Specifically, I thought about the moments when the past disgusts us and we want to run away – like I did in the first place, only faster this time. When all is said and done, and there is a new president in place next year at this time, how will we feel about it all?

It wasn’t just Melissa’s personality – which I resent – but the fact that someone like her could succeed in the same environment as me, the fact that she was actually more successful than I was all that time. George W. Bush – who has led a relatively successful presidency on his own terms –maintained a personality throughout that was a complete affront to so many of us. Personally, I want to see a politician who can inspire and speak eloquently; I want someone who genuinely sounds like he is smart enough for the job. And every time I heard his braggadocioed jumbled answers to intelligently-posed, necessary questions, a part of me wanted to punch the wall. But, even though his incoherent statements defied reason time and time again, he got away with it. He used connections to obtain his post, and his money paid for the rest.

Melissa was hired by an alum of her college and a former sorority sister. Once there, her association with our superiors allowed her opportunities on some of the best projects in the company portfolio. She was admitted to a top tier business school, and she will be a happy, successful, wealthy, suburban mom who can afford to buy creativity at the paper store.

I wonder how we will see President Bush in retrospect. Will we cringe and run away from that chapter in our history, or will we – as we did with Reagan a few summers ago – fondly speak of him as The Great Something-or-Other, chuckle at his incompetence in the spotlight, shake our heads a bit over the war he invented? I hope, above everything, that we neither run away from nor forget our anger. We have seen how badly we can be represented on the world stage, and we must always demand better.

As for Melissa, this should show her.

this fateful day

It occurred to me that, on a quite regular basis over the past year or two, I have taken to believing in fate. That is, these-things-happen-for-a-reason, and whatever's-meant-to-be-will-be, and so on. And not only am I becoming a strong and fast believer in fate, but I am also accepting it. My new philosophy, as it would seem, is to watch things happen, accept them, and move on.

Today I woke up to find that both of the appointments I had this morning had been canceled. And I found myself thinking, "aha, this must mean it's time for me to work on those creative pieces I've left on the back burner." So I took my laptop over to the couch and opened my folder of unfinished prose documents. Then I paused. Why, apparently, did it take some "sign", some fluke freed-up hours in my schedule, to motivate me to do the thing I love? What have I been sitting around doing all this time?

Living in the city and working as a receptionist, I'm operating at all times in a state of reaction. Phone calls and emails come in, traffic lights change, the train comes and goes, I run out of coffee beans and paper towels and now is a good time to stock up because they are on special at the market, and we've got to see that movie before the theater gets something new, and sure I'll pick up extra hours at work because there's rent to pay and monthly internet access fees are going up.

It's as though life is a musical number with a million different tracks and I am an ear with an amateur understanding of music. I pick up on different parts and follow the track for a while - the bass line, the melody, the drum style, one of the harmonizing vocal lines - and I am amused by it and sometimes I hum along. But I never have the energy to lay down a track of my own, to create a new harmony or add a new instrument, or even just join the chorus. I'm just listening. I'm just reacting.

The idea of creating a new track, honestly, kind of scares me. I think I am afraid that I'll lose sight of the beauty of it all. I'll be so focused on perfecting my own part and blending and complementing what is there, that I won't be able to hear everything, simultaneously.

But today there was a lull, a moment when things slowed down and got quiet, and I had to fill it with something. Whether it was fate or not, it certainly gave me pause and maybe a bit of a kick-start. This fateful day is showing me that I really should get in there and join the song.