The Work Is More Important

Photo: Alexis Fauvet

I was walking to town earlier and talking to my angel posse, the sky a brilliant deep blue above, my gait swift, the cold air refreshing after a morning indoors.

I was thinking about my website and how from time to time, I get carried away by thinking it should be better, bigger, or different — and how this habitual thinking is familiar and comfortable, like the coat I love but sadly, have outgrown. It’s snug around the middle though I’m loathe to admit it, and it doesn’t really give me room to move freely and stay warm at the same time.

Well, that thinking — the “not enough” stuff with its claws tearing open healed over places — doesn’t fit anymore, but damn if I don’t still squeeze myself into it on occasion.

What came to me was this: “The work is more important than the website.”

The work is more important than the website. Oh, right!

What actually goes on — in groups and one-on-one — this is the work. The creative process, the writing, the sharing without apology, this is the work. And it is such real stuff.

Websites are nice. They can be supremely useful and aesthetically gorgeous and wonderfully functional. But they are not the work itself, at least not in my case. Remembering this today felt so good, like coming home.

And then I was on North Pleasant Street — no longer talking to myself (I try to save that for less public spaces, lol). I spotted the guy with the clipboard up ahead and did a quick mental dance about whether I would stop or not. I decided to let him give his spiel, which was about Doctors Without Borders. I agreed to a one-time donation, and as I stood there filling out my information in his iPad, we got to chatting. I asked if he was a student, and then he asked what I do.

“I work with writers,” I told him. Before I could say another word he lit up. “You mean, like, with writing books?!” I laughed. “Yes, among other things. Why, are you writing a book?”

Not one, but seven, he told me, but he feels stuck because he doesn’t have people to share his writing with, doesn’t know about self-publishing, and wishes he had some community he could trust and learn from and with.

He asked if I have a writing group.

As a matter of fact…

I need to order new business cards, so I told him my website, showing him the home page and how he can contact me. The very website I had earlier today been focused on improving, until I returned to the essential fact that I am already doing the work! And the work’s more important than the website.

He said he’d have a look and get in touch.

Before we parted ways, he asked my name, extending his hand.

“Jena,” I told him, “with one n. What’s yours?”

“Yeshaq, with a q.”

Nice to meet you, Yeshaq.

Now Would Be a Good Time to Forget Your Perfect Offering

0q33pyk-axi-tina-rataj-berardFast and furious freewrite about worry. Here goes.

What worries me is worrying itself, and how it is a closed loop, a vicious cycle, a mindfuck and a body destroyer. The topics that typically worry me most are so familiar, so ubiquitous. They remind me of the dust beneath our bed. Just there. But if we would only move the entire frame away, sweeping and mopping would be a snap. Worrying about being able to focus and connect and keep writing and doing my work in this world.

I worry that all the noise will make it impossible to hear my own heart. I worry that I feel alienated by conversations people are having — people I once related to or felt connected to.

And so there is this sense of shifting: Who are my people?

And then remembering that the place where worry goes away for me is when I don’t worry about who my people are. If you read these words and they spark some sense of yes for you, if we care about each other, if we are both worried about Russia and Canadian geese dying in toxic lakes and the school-to-prison pipeline and corruption beyond imagination and how we never learned the native maps, how there was barely even a mention in school of life on this land before the British came and sought “freedom” on faulty ideals that excluded the very people who named the rivers, before random borders were established, when women’s voices were in the margins of the writing pads, kitchen subversives and secret abolitionists, if you are worried that we are in a state so severe that worrying will get us nowhere, if you know that we are already nowhere and thus, more here than ever, in a post-worrying world where speed leads to implosion, then you are my people.

If you feel alienated by the mainstream and question whether “mainstream” is even a thing and who gets to decide these things and no, I won’t share yet another Trump video, like the one where he’s saying “Man of the Year” has a much better ring to it than “Person of the Year” (don’t you think? YEAH roars his reality-show crowd, his minions) because sharing this shit changes nothing. But then I can’t resist because I’m so worked up, so I share. And then I delete. Repeat.

Getting worked up changes nothing and yet if you aren’t worked up, if you aren’t worrying, what are you doing? Who are you being?

There is no right or wrong way to be. And yet I write this, and even as the words come, there is a hollow ring to them. I can’t bear platitudes. I can’t bear language so inclusive that it could be misconstrued as apology for ignorance, inaction, or anything that enables this moment to go unchallenged. I worry about questions around judgment, factions, language police (on all sides), and so much noise, oh just so much noise.

Am I adding to the noise? Oh, but I must.

Now would be a good time to forget your perfect offering. Right, Mr. Cohen (may you rest in peace)?

Forget your perfect offering. Don’t let this rancid moment in history curl your heart into acrid dissolution. Tell me what you worry about. Tell me what your Sunday will bring. Tell me one beautiful thing about your life. Tell me which windows let in the most light. Tell me where you are on the map of the world. Tell me that this is not “spiritual bypassing” but real, real life, real connection, in this moment — and that that still counts. Tell me it still fucking counts.

And I will keep telling you, too: Everything counts. Your life, your words, your ways. Forget your perfect offering and keep being here with me.

Join me for my next two-week writing group: Imperfect Offerings, January 9-20, 2017. Come let the words out without having to get it right or prove a thing. This is a place for practice, not perfection. Register here