Is It Time to Give Up?
Is It Time to Give Up?
On failure, addictive thinking, and the questions we should be asking ourselves.
In October, after the engagement party, the poet’s parents came to visit. They went to the beach every day, and cooked us amazing meals every day. Then, my brother came. We barbecued and pizza’ed and went to all the places with all the best things. It was 31 days of indulging, celebrating, and having 2-hour breakfasts.
So this month was supposed to be No-bread-no-sugar-vember.
A big reason I moved here, aside from the food, was to work less and live more. Earning the dollar allows me to spend more time on creative pursuits, one of which has been a film project—a personal story I’ve been working on for years. It’s gone through every possible setback imaginable. But finally, this year, things started to happen.
An amazing team of people came together. We applied for two grants. I worked high and low to meet the application deadlines, doing zoom meetings while sweating away with Covid, saying no to paid work, feeling so lucky and happy that at long last I had people around me who believed in this project as much as I did. Maybe it was finally going to happen, I thought. Like they say in the awards’ show speeches—you know, that actor who had $0.21 in her bank account and was sleeping on a friend’s couch when she got this role, or the one who was about to drop the business completely, and now here she is in a Valentino gown. You have to keep trying. Don’t let other people determine your worth. Believe in yourself, because if you don’t, no one else will. Never, ever, ever give up.
This week, I got an email.
We didn’t get the first grant.
Obviously, I cried.
If you have been following this newsletter for long enough, you probably aren’t surprised. Still, it’s hard to admit, and I don’t know why. I encourage everyone else to cry—the people I teach meditation to or do Tarot for, all my friends, people in 12-step, strangers in restaurant bathrooms. There is a saying that meditation is only working when the cushion is soaked in tears. My teacher talks about being on a silent retreat, and her teacher asking her to hand out water balloons to people, to emphasize the importance of crying.
It’s been scientifically proven to release anti-stress hormones, for godsakes.
Why do we hide our crying in public, but not our laughing?
So yeah, I cried. A lot. I ate two chocolate-covered cotton candy bonbons that I was saving for De-stroy-your-health-cember, and a pide, and a bag of gummy candies my brother had brought me from Canada. I fell right into my old, unkind, comfortable-yet-painful story.
Once upon a time, there was a 45-year old woman who had dreams. But it was too late for her. Also she probably wasn’t good enough at what she did, so she might as well not bother. I mean really, it’s embarrassing. She shouldn’t talk about it to anyone, especially not via Substack newsletter.
My addiction takes on many forms, but its master, its Eye of Sauron, is the belief that if I try to control all the factors in my life enough by judging myself harshly enough, I won’t make any mistakes, and therefore won’t have to feel sad, bad, angry, or afraid.
In October, one of my best friends was rushed to hospital in an ambulance.
She’s 80 years old and lives in Canada. I got the news at around 10pm by email, and at that point no one knew what was going on. I spent that night staring out the window, stunned, trying and failing to imagine life without her in it.
She is recovering now, slowly. She still doesn’t have the strength for many phone calls. I feel terrible that I’m not there to help. I miss her so much, and then keep remembering with a kick to my chest that one day, in all likelihood, I will miss her even more.
Also, Jasmine’s husband is still undergoing aggressive cancer treatment.
October: a time our ancestors contemplated death, crossing over, rebirth.
So I’ve been thinking about how precious and fleeting our time here is. I’ve been asking myself questions I am privileged to be able to ask.
Lie what do I really want to be doing with my time on this earth?
What would I want to look back on during my last days?
How mindfully am I walking the line between being a responsible grown-up and taking creative risks?
How much am I telling myself it’s too late to walk it at all?
In 12-step recovery, we learn that when we are in our addiction, we cannot trust our mind.
The other day, a recovery friend told me about a game called “it’s totally possible”. You say, “It’s totally possible that _____________,” and fill in that blank with something your cranky, unkind, self-judgey mind has been insisting is not in the cards.
Try it.
I’ll wait.
It’s totally possible that not getting the grant had nothing to do with the potential of the film.
It’s totally possible that we will get another grant.
It’s totally possible that this film will get made, and that it will be as wonderful as our little team believes it will.
It’s totally possible that if I don’t give up, I will cross that line and live by art and joy alone. Like thousands of people on this planet do, every single day.
Okay.
Once upon a time, there was a 45-woman who had dreams. Society told her it was too late for her, and her conditioning told her she was not good enough at what she did, so she might as well not bother. But she learned, one day at a time, that that wasn’t true. And that she should talk about it, because a lot of people feel this way.
Because it’s totally possible that what we see as failure is actually progress in disguise.