Or, Down With Exceptionalism

Now playing: “Just the Way You Are,” Billy Joel

I came across this yesterday:
“Your purpose is not the thing you do. It is the thing that happens in others when you do what you do.” — Dr. Caroline Leaf

(This post is for me and all of those I may have pestered to create art.)
That quote hit hard.

What if we measured ourselves not by how high we climb or how accomplished we seem, but by the effect we have on others with our art, our work? What if that’s all in the world we are meant to do?

Word Raccoon, does that make it clear that we care about people regardless of their art or their accomplishments?

I could create a list of the 200+  things I like about nearly everyone I know that is not even related to what they create, but I’m thinking that might prove ambitious.

But I’ll make an exception for you, dear reader. Just ask. Ooh… are you wondering now what would be on it? Me, too! I might make it just for my own fun.

Maybe One…that dinosaur smile of yours with the Brontosaurus neck press. Rare, but signature. Yes, I’m aware of the name debate, but it will always be a Brontosaurus to me.

WR, that last bit is odd even for you. But I approve this message.

There’s this idea floating around, whispering in so many people’s heads (sometimes my own, about me), that if you’re not exceptional, if you’re not somehow brighter, faster, more brilliant than the rest, you’re failing. And it breaks my heart more than a little, because it’s a lie. A cruel one.

The people who love you, really love you, aren’t here because they’re waiting for you to become some larger-than-life artist, and if they are, screw them and the hell wagon they rode in on.

(Not that you’re not that talented, but you don’t have to use it. Sometimes God gives with both hands and that is delicious and unfair to the rest of us mere mortals.)

I think of the things that have affected me most, things that were just all in a day’s work for someone. That’s a quiet kind of magic. But the person doing it didn’t wake up that day thinking: “I’m going to say something profound, and presto, change-o, her life will rearrange-o.”

Let go of the performance. Just let what you do and say naturally speak. It’s enough. You’re enough.

WR is fussing at me, saying this is too soft and would I please invite everyone to smell limburger or something now, but I don’t think I will. (If you’ve seen the title, you know I did.)

Although the warmer it gets out here at the coffeehouse, the more I’m fighting the tendency to do just that. She’s getting cranky.

In other happenings today, a woman sitting at an adjacent table and I discussed Paris and art. She is newly back from France and regretting not taking the time to paint while she was there. I quoted Hemmingway at her.

I wrote 2 ½ poems, one so sentimental I had the urge to check its sugar. Ugh. Don’t toss it overboard, but maybe clip some curlicues, Word Raccoon. One I called “Gaslighting for a Living.” The other has a volcano in it. IDK where that’s headed.

I went through the newest Poets & Writers and circled deadlines and gently reminded WR and myself that we really ought to revise our poetry before we send it out like it’s full grown.

I began reading a friend’s story in the current issue of The Louisville Review, too. It’s heartfelt and atmospheric, and he’s one of the hardest working writers I know and generous, too. He’s always DM’ing me some little tidbit he thinks I will enjoy.

After I finish up at the coffeehouse, I definitely need to go pick up some “thank you” cards for those who were so generous this past week.

Do laundry.

Empty the dishwasher.

You know, the things that not only give you space to think (who can think in a mess?) but are the pauses between the words, the necessary-for-mulling ones.

Am I right?

Word Raccoon is jumping up and down on the dishwasher’s open door.
Girl, get down.

She ran across the word embiggen last night and did not believe it is a word. It’s a word. Or it claims to be. Apparently it was used on The Simpsons in 1996. It sounds like a word used by romance writers who have run out of suggestive verbs for… you know.

Yeah, I think it’s definitely time I feed WR. We’re getting ridiculous.

Update: I ran into a friend as I was buying cards, and she was just going on break, so we hopped in my van to chat where I fed WR a snack, and my friend told me she had read my recently published poems. I mentioned the one I’m working on where I’m trying to reverse the meter of the poem that inspired me and asked her advice.

What I can’t decide is if reversing the meter of the “unspirational” poem will A. be possible. B. be too subtle. C. be pointless since the poem has been around, oh, awhile. D. break with my current version of my poem, which burns the original to the ground. My friend (who is very well-read) advised I give it some time; she thinks I will be able to do it. I appreciate the vote of confidence, but can I really?

I do like the high ones. A League of Their Own reference. God, I love that movie. So spunky.

(I’m always open to second opinions re: poetry and meter, of course.)

On the way home, WR demanded I go through the drive-thru and get a Coke Zero. (Why is it drive-thru and not drive-through? Is it merely a space-on-the-sign thing? That’s just ugly.)

The guy who usually fires his greeting to the point where you literally cannot understand him did the same thing today over the loudspeaker.

I made him repeat it, though I knew exactly what he said the first time. Well, kinda. I freely admit I was driving the petty bus.

Lunch has helped. I can confirm it is now once again safe to approach the raccoon.

Then, as I was on the way home, I saw a lemonade stand and did penance by buying a cup from the kiddos.

When I got home, a certain mister was mowing. He came around to say hello and I gave him the drink. Win/win.

Would someone please tell this dang raccoon we really do need to do our chores now?