Message to self for the new year:
Have a glass of wine. Or better yet... a margarita.
Smoke a J.
Watch a silly movie.
Wear your pj all day and with no shame.
Eat junk food. Once. Or twice.
Eat ice cream. Often.
Skip your workout. Just because.
Watch a reality show. For no reason.
STOP TAKING THINGS SO SERIOUSLY.
Play with your partner. Or your partners.
In the bedroom. Or with a board game.
Whatever floats your boat.
Dig up that ole' Nintendo Wii and see if it works.
And if does - spend hours on it. Just because you can.
See fireworks. From your bedroom window. Or on TV. Whatever is easier.
Or skip food. For once. Have dessert be your meal.
Toss your bra.
Never wear it again.
Until tomorrow. (maybe)
Eat chocolate. LOTS of chocolate.
Go on TikTok.
And have a happy fucking new year.
Some people wish for health or happiness,
Some for richness of joy,
Some for richness of things.
I only wish for myself to go
Into a new dream.
To never stop
Like a child building a sandcastle
And seeing a whole world
Rise out of her
To never stop creating
From the heart,
From the bitterness,
Of my existence
And the yearning
For a better one.
To find meaning
Above all else
And what could happen
If we only dream,
If we only wish,
If we only believe.
If you know me, you know I'm a sucker for melancholic music.
Melancholic anything, really.
And this song 'Mystery Of Love by Sufjan Stevens does not disappoint.
It starts with the words 'Oh, to see without my eyes...' and ends with the words 'blessed be the mystery of love.'
This arc sums up the dense topic of love with brutal honestly, and accompanied with the soft melody and fragile voice of Sufjan Stevens - it's on constant replay on my Spotify.
When we fall in love, we fall in blindness. And we hurt so easily in the process (like the film 'Call Me By Your Name' - that features this song - tells so beautifully).
Our heart is more tender when we don't have eyes to lead the way, I imagine...
~Blessed by the mystery of music~
"Perfect is the enemy of good."
Well, to be precise - Voltaire was quoted saying "Best is the enemy of the good" back in 1770, but the modern take on his quote resonates with me more. I've also heard the version "perfect is the enemy of DONE" and that also resonates.
While society judges our imperfections on a daily basis - be it with our lack of 'perfect' achievement or achieving 'perfect' standard of beauty, we tend to be crippled with the notion of those very big shoes to fill. So crippled - that we may not do anything at all. Not finish that memoir we dreamt years of writing, not go after the job we actually want to take on because it pays less or whatnot, or not marry our love of our life because society has seemed a different match for us as the 'perfect' match.
PERFECT is an illusion. An unattainable reach. An impossible non-existent goal. Anything that absolute is a red flag. The reddest.
So F**K PERFECT! F**K IT!
Go DO THE THING! Life is short. It's fickle. It's temporary af.
Go after GOOD.
Or better yet - go after DONE.
Gratitude is a practice.
Much like yoga, and meditation.
Practice that does not 'makes perfect' (Ah such a horrible sentiment, isn't it?) but rather it is a practice that one visits daily/often and every time the experience will be different. Not better. Just different. Practice where we meet the present moment.
A practice that is circular, or horizontal. Rather than linear. Practice isn't a ladder to climb on and get 'better' at, but rather it's a vast ocean and when we practice we meet ourselves in the ocean wherever it meets us that day.
The practice is gratitude, or rather 'being grateful' is exactly that.
Some days, we can be grateful for the food on our plate, the rooftop over our heads, the new phone we got for Christmas, or the new sale on our favorite fashion brand.
We can be grateful for the people in our lives, our loved ones, and how well they are doing, and how much we are grateful to have them in our lives.
And we can also be grateful for existence, without relation to us: For the world to keep ticking, for animals to flourish, for nature to persist. We can be grateful for butterflies, for arts, for oceans and weather. We can be grateful for the lessons we go through, the growth that occurs in us, the mirror others put for us to see ourselves even when it hurts. In the practice of gratitude, we often pivot from being grateful for things or people or ourselves, to being grateful for existing and for existence of all things.
Today I am grateful for:
1. My engine that works: the BODY in all its hiccups and its glory. That every bone is intact and thriving, every blood vessel is miraculous, and every inch of flesh that is there to protect me and itself.
2. The time I have to create, to tell stories, to bond with my muses. I am aware that many don't have the luxury of time at their disposal like I do.
3. Mother nature that is resilient despite humans' interference. We may not survive our own destruction. But she will. Her resilience is ever lasting, while us humans - are fickle.
4. Remembering that none matters and all matters. That the point to life may be none other than to embrace the notion that there is no point. So why indulge in fear and separation?
5. People. People. People. As much as I adore my time alone - the vast array of people in all their differences makes life fuller, richer, more complex and imaginative than my wildest dreams. Because dreams are my own. But people - people are THEIR own.
What are you grateful for?
And remember, practice *does not* makes perfect. But rather - practice makes sense. Quite literally, I might add.
I spoke of time yesterday.
Today I'll speak of space. Oh, how I'd like space to be unimportant, unseparated. How I'd like it to be everywhere. Why people are away from each other due to space? That I will never understand. Nor would I like to understand.
If only space could exist just like it does in dreams: everywhere and nowhere. With no boundaries or separation. No time difference and long flights. No hour long commutes or hours long train rides. You think of someone - and you can see them. Right then and there! Is it a wishful thinking? A premonition for the future? Or just a plea from a boundary-hating immigrant who wishes her country of birth was a whole lot closer.
I am feeling the crutch of time.
It sifts through, totally uninvited. Reminding me that I too, will get old.
I, too, will age like a wise aged tree hunched down barely standing on its roots.
I, too, will say goodbye to this body of mine one day.
And even if that day will be far from today - it will be uninvited.
It will be unannounced. It's how it rolls.
Time, like death, doesn't wait for humans to catch up. It follows its own rhythm.
"Write every day"
Not until your fingers hurt,
Not until you bleed
Not until you exhaust yourself to bed
But write until the next day.
WRITE every day, 'till the next day.
That is all.
Sometimes the quieter you are,
The louder your heart speaks.
You find the movement
Of your elusive soul.
Breathing helps you remember
That you are
For no reason
Other then to live
If you conclude your year
With your renowned achievements
Or your failed attempts,
That is only the noise of life's illusion.
Purpose isn't an aspiration
Or a calling,
It's simply --
A state of living.
That is all.
The day a great writer dies, is the day the English language loses a sound. A breath. A syllable. A consonant, perhaps? Or, perhaps - a vowel. One that's long and never ending. Slouching in laziness like a California girl. A vowel that lasts forever and draws you in, seductively. It leaves and now an empty space remains. What will be said then? What will words sounds like without that one particular sound, or breath, or syllable? What would the empty space contain besides the emptiness left after a great writer dies?
We all want to live forever.
We freeze our skin, work our muscles, eat well, sleep more, orgasm more, just so we can have a longer visit on planet earth.
We settle on 'longer' but we really all want to live forever. Never die - Never parish. And how do we do that? When our bodies collapse, and our voices break, and our hearts murmur... how do we live forever then? A stamp. All we need is a stamp. One that would travel long enough to live forever, to make our eternal entry to the book of fame. The book of the eternals. The book of the Joan Didions of the world, the actual superheroes. The human, breathing living people who have the courage to simply be themselves.
Fully. Deeply. Eternally. Rest in peace, Ms. Didion.
In April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman