Momentary Joys

I have a weird relationship with writing. Actually, I have a weird relationship with most of the things I love to do. Writing, running, playing music. Almost every day, I feel inspired to do these things. I read Black Hockey Jesus, who is an amazing writer (and a runner, come to think of it), or Alice Bradley's blog about writing, and I think to myself, I'll write something! I'll realize my potential! I'll do what I've always loved to do!

I drive down the road and pass what seems like a Macy's-sponsored parade of runners, decked out in spandex and energetic ponytails, their cheeks and noses pink with enthusiasm, and I feel a vicarious elation. I resolve to start running again, right away.

But before I have even opened a Word document or pulled on my shoes, I've talked myself out of it. I've gone so long without blogging, I reason, no one would read it anyway. I've never finished a story that wasn't an assignment for a 6th grade English class. I haven't run regularly since November, so I probably wouldn't even make it 2 miles. What's the point in starting if I won't finish? What's the point in doing it if I can't do it well? Shouldn't I be spending that time doing schoolwork anyway? I've yet to find a scrap of joy that I can't fashion into a straitjacket.

Instead of doing things I love, I beat myself up about not doing them, or not doing them well enough. I tell myself I'm a failure for letting my blog sit stale for 7 months. I'm lazy and gross because I stopped running and gained 7 lbs over Christmas. I have no ambition, no talent, no perseverance.

Of course, the simple answer is, Girl, you crazy.

It's our choice how we spend our time, obviously. There is no authoritative maniac running up to strangers on the street, yelling, "Why aren't you learning to play the clarinet, you worthless piece of shit?!?" We have no responsibility to please anyone but ourselves. I'm not unhappy because I'm not living up to a street maniac's standards, I'm unhappy because I'm not doing the things I know I enjoy, because as soon as I start doing them, I worry about the street maniac's standards. Does that make sense? Of course not. I know. Girl, you crazy.

I think the answer is to live in the moment. At any given moment, you're either doing something that satisfies you, or you're not. Right now I'm writing, and I'm enjoying it. Sometime in the future someone may read it, or they may not. Hopefully, at some moment in the future, I'll be running and enjoying it, and it won't matter how far I go, or whether I ran the day before, or will run the day after. Instead of coming up with reasons that my passions are a waste of time, I would probably be better off asking myself, "Would it make me feel awesome to do this right now?" Because while my writing and running and generally living may not please the judgmental street maniac, I suspect that coming up with new ways to call myself a failure isn't what he had in mind, either.