How Have I Been Spending Myself?
What am I built for?
What have I been spending myself on?
Work. Doing. How to pay the bills.
Worry about paying the bills translated into actions that may or may not actually pay the bills.
Working for yourself sucks.
It’s the tentacles—that reach one into the other—that make it a sticky ball or web: my personal esteem issues becoming business decisions and actions.
“How to Write a Very Difficult Plan of Action in 20 Steps or More” could be the name of my work life. And how I’ve been spending my life currency. My life essence.
I’ve jokingly said that during work I would turn a show on—not one that takes much brain power or attention—because its purpose was to babysit the part of me that wanted to go out and play.
It’s sad when I say it that way.
Too sad and too true.
I’ve decided that it’s the questions I ask myself that start the ball rolling—the ball rolling downhill into long, long lists and tasks that never get completed. So I’ve begun working on my questions.
Solve for the questions, and they’ll lead me to better work. And a better life.
That still begs the question: do I wish to spend myself on work?
I have a friend who loves his work so much he works non-stop—days, nights, weekends, vacations. He’s a photographer, and he’ll create extravagant photoshoots to satisfy that part of himself.
If we are artists, and the art is our work, then where is the line?
It sucks to earn your living from something you love.
I suppose it results in obsessively working… or beginning to hate the thing you love.
Be careful which horse you pack your earnings on.
Is it one with strong legs and packhorse conformation—able to go for miles with a house on its back, and kids, and the food, car repairs, clothing, and miscellany?
Or will it crumble?
Maybe your horse—the one you love, the one you’d ride all the time if you could—is built for dancing.
Or built for sprints.
Or perhaps it lounges in a meadow of flowers and asks you to braid its hair.
Not all horses are built to carry the load.
What if my work were Joy?
To create and experience joy?
That would yield a much different life.
I’d still get work done—because that’s just life, and life isn’t always fun.
But my eye—that faithful little dog who follows my questions—would begin to look for joy.
First, in obvious places: a flower, a particularly brilliant sunrise, a good joke, a loving glance from my beloved, the color of my bedroom when the lowering sun glows like honey through the West window.
Then, I imagine, my joy-muscle—strengthening—might begin to see delight in the curve of a mug.
The warm wood tones and subtle carvings on my piano (Korean with a German accent, my piano tuner tells me).
Or the color red.
The rug. A flower on my skirt. The faux Tiffany-style torchère.
The sweet creamer container, plastic and all.
I would become a joy expert, seeing it everywhere, all at once. Eventually.
What a question.
What am I built for?
What horse am I?
Have I loaded her (me) with build-appropriate burdens?
Have I spent myself—spent my life—the way I would want?
How I’ve spent my minutes… so have I spent my life.
So I have heart, and believe.
How have I spent my minutes?
I would spend them more wisely.
More wisely and selectively—with gentleness and a soft touch for myself.
Checking in: Am I okay? Do I need a pillow for my back?
Would I like to take a walk?
Would I like to be present in my life instead of parked in front of a computer screen?
Yes.
Yes.
And yes, please. I would love to.
I would love to eat food that makes my body sigh—not food that my mind says will dull the edge of worry
.
I would move, and dance, and write, and live this one life of mine.