Turn Envy into Inspiration

image from SleepingBear

Have you heard?

That e-course filled up in a day! He got a book deal! The online sale sold out in an hour! She's making enough money to support herself! He was invited to teach! She's getting national media coverage!

Gossip, gossip; murmur, murmur.

Here's the deal: The online community (and the rest of the world, for that matter) is made up of two kinds of people: the doers -- the movers and shakers -- who get all the attention and do all the cool projects; and the wannabes, who wish they could be like the doers.

Whoa. Do I really believe that? Not exactly. But here's what I do know to be true: There's an epidemic of envy in the online community. I'm not pointing fingers or throwing stones in a glass house here. I have been part of the epidemic. I speak of what I know.

You know who I mean when I say "the doers," right? Those folks who frolic among the clouds, slide down rainbows, and sleep on lavender scented moonbeams while money and high quality organic chocolate pour into their bank accounts. They're smart and beautiful; well connected and well loved; prolific and profitable. We each have our own private list of such people. Maybe it's filled with artists, writers, and photographers. Or maybe it includes entrepreneurs, tech gurus, and public speakers. Or food bloggers, craft bloggers, and mommy bloggers.

The online world is huge, but every list is extremely specific, isn't it? My list may be completely different from yours, but a lot of the accompanying thoughts and emotions are the same. The people on these lists are the ones we blog stalk, obsess over, and analyze. We feel like a loser when they announce yet another success. We get snarky and think, "Well, must be nice!" Then we feel uplifted and affirmed when they respond to one of our comments or emails. We're their biggest fans and their biggest critics. We've become the TMZ of blog celebrities, the British tabloids for online royalty.

Envy brings out the worst in us because we believe that envy is a "bad" emotion. As kids we're taught to share and to play nice. We know we're supposed to be generous and happy for others -- this is woven into the ethical fabric of our social consciousness. So when we feel envious, we often feel guilty and embarrassed. And from our shame can come a callousness designed to cover up the fact that we're feeling an emotion we've been taught is wrong.

We turn envy into anger because anger gives us a feeling of power.

But here's the thing: We envy what we covet. We covet what we love. And we love -- are you ready? here it comes! -- we love what we're meant for.

I'm going to repeat that, in a boldfaced, bulleted list kind of way, in case you're like me and tend to skim blog posts too quickly:

• We envy what we covet.
• We covet what we love.
• We love what we're meant for.

Jealousy is a compass. It points us to our true north, to what we value and long for the most. I learned this from Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. (I know, I know. This book is quoted all the time in certain creative circles. But for good reason, I say.)

We need to stop reacting to jealousy with guilt and the subsequent mean-spiritedness. Now here's where I'm going to get all Zen on you. The next time someone on your list announces a fabulous new project, success, or accolade, just notice your jealously. Sit with it. Get curious about it (as this astute life coach would say). Look at it with a beginner's mind and wonder about it. What does it mean? Why do you feel this way?

What is it about that other person's situation that you want? Is it the recognition? The creative freedom? The money? Don't judge this. Just admit to yourself why you envy that other person. When you know the reasons for your envy, you'll see what you covet. When you see what you covet, you can discover what you love. And when you've discovered what you love, you'll know what you are meant for.

Then you can turn your envy into inspiration. (Which is sort of like turning that frown upside down, but not so rhyme-y.)

image from SleepingBear

In other words, unpacking our envy allows us to target our motivating factors. Then, instead of feeling sorry for ourselves about someone else's good fortune, we can start moving in the direction of our own. If you're a good-hearted person with a desire to live fully and authentically, I promise that this will feel so much better than kvetching about someone else's success.

And here's the shocking secret I've recently learned: Those doers -- the people we think have all their shit together, those amazingly creative and popular peeps -- they often feel like wannabes, too. They struggle and they fail and they feel lonely sometimes. Just like the rest of us wannabes!

Wait? Could it be? We're all wannabes? Maybe.

Or maybe we're all doers in different stages of doing.

I once read that experiencing a beautiful piece of art won't make the true artist jealous; rather, it will inspire her in her own art. I took that as truth for awhile, but it depressed and discouraged me because sometimes I see amazing things and I do feel jealous. Therefore, I came to believe that I wasn't a true artist.

But that axiom is an oversimplification of things. Envy is a naturally occurring reaction, but it doesn't have to turn ugly. We can choose whether or not to turn our envy into inspiration. Like all worthwhile commitments, it's one I have to choose again and again.

So, to sum it all up in a nicely alliterative, yet somewhat smarmy way: Inspiration can inoculate us against the envy epidemic.

What do you think?

Writing Badly

on Jarrett Cove, Puget Sound, July 2009

I am learning to write badly. Don't misunderstand me: I can already write badly. Very badly, in fact. But I hate doing it. I hate to write when it's hard and cumbersome and ugly. I hate to write when the words aren't flowing easily and every sentence feels like a Herculean effort laden with clichés. I hate to write when I don't know what I want to say or can't get to the heart of what I mean. And since I'm all about pleasure, I avoid the writing when it's hard and bad. But this doesn't help me as a writer. So today, and tomorrow and tomorrow for however long it takes for it to become more natural, I'm practicing writing badly. I'm practicing sticking with it even when I can hardly stand it. I'm practicing the writing process, no matter what the product looks like. I'm learning to write badly so that I can write well more often.

What can you do badly more often?

Go to the Page (Or, why I journal)

my journal, photo taken with cell phone camera

I've been realizing lately that many people (see the comments section on that link) find journaling intimidating; they think it has to be beautiful, insightful, interesting, and publishable. I understand this desire to put good things down on the page. Putting pen to paper can feel like a commitment. But I use my journal as a place to rest, a place to put all the parts of me that need a place to land, no matter how beautiful/ugly, insightful/narrow-minded, interesting/banal, publishable/embarrassing they may be. Fellow writer/blogger/journaler Jen Lee has a good explanation of how she uses her journal as a catch-all here.

In my journal, I can rest on the page. I think this is a term that comes from Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. She encourages everyone to handwrite three pages each morning, just to quiet the internal chatter. This simple technique works wonders, no matter what time of day I do it. When I'm feeling especially unfocused and twitchy, I know it's time to go back to my journal, pen in hand, and just write whatever comes to mind, be that what I ate for breakfast, what I dreamt the night before, or what I'm worried about. Sometimes a poem sneaks in there. Sometimes I bitch and moan (and then deride myself for being so whiney) about everything and nothing. But all of those things need a place to be, so I put them in my journal. Otherwise they just float around in my head, whispering to or screaming at me.

When I go too long without this free-for-all mind-mapping brain-dump, I end up feeling lost and nervous in the labyrinth of myself. At those times, if I can just listen to my inner voice, it says: Go to the page, go to the page, go to the page. Often, it's only after I do that, after I allow myself to write whatever comes to me in whatever form it comes, can I move on to other creative work. (I almost said "real creative work," but I don't want to discount the reality of what happens in the journal.)

Here's an excerpt from tonight's journal entry, to show you why each and every time, I need to go to the page. It starts out boring and stupid as all hell. Then slowly something starts to emerge. To be honest, this doesn't happen every time. Sometimes I write a few pages and then get tired of my own prattle. But even at those times I come away feeling a little lighter, a little more focused.

* * * * * *

8/5/09 6:15pm

I still haven't gotten a handle on my schedule this week. Today I got up just in time to get dressed and go to my dentist appointment. No time for a shower or primping, so my hair looked sad and lackluster. Then I came home, had last night's leftovers for lunch, and spent several hours on the phone with J. and then F. I've been trying to get down to business for the last two hours. Instead, I made a snack, turned on the news, and played around online.

I'm feeling jittery. So I turned off the TV, cleaned up my dirty dishes, and shut the laptop. Now it's just me, a glass of iced water, the pen, and the page. And Gatwick the Catwick -- he's here cleaning himself.

I'm buzzing. I'm overcaffeinated and underslept. There's also a lot of creative energy buzzing about, but I need to harness it. Right now I'm just a bit of a buzzy mess.

I want to take a nap. Or go to Barnes & Noble to buy Julie & Julia so I can read it before seeing the movie. Instead, I'm going to focus on writing tonight. Oh, and I may bake a batch of tri-berry muffins so the raspberries don't go to waste.

Tomorrow will be a good day to try the new schedule. I have no other Nevermind. James is off tomorrow. And Friday I'm spending time with A. But back to this moment at hand.

At this moment, my hand holds this pen and makes marks across the page. At this moment the house is quiet. At this moment my teeth and jaw hurt from my dentist appointment. At this moment, deep breathing clears my head. At this moment, my hand slows down and the scribbling becomes intentional shapes on the page. At this moment ice cold water slides down my throat and leaves my tongue cool. At this moment the air conditioner turns on. At this moment I have a strong desire to read Madeleine L'Engle. At this moment, the buzzing starts to subside.

 * * * * * *

Homesick

Cannon Beach, Oregon (July 2009)

From Before
From this island retreat house balcony, I spy a small corner of Puget Sound just past these very tall pine trees. This setting is causing a bit of sensory dissonance for me. It's my first time in the Pacific Northwest, and my first experience with this kind of body of water. The visual input says woods and lake to me, but the scent of seawater reminds me that this is no freshwater lake. As I looked out the floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows this morning, I saw that the geography of the cove had altered dramatically. I walked down to the dock and realized it was low tide. Plump orange starfish spattered the exposed sand and lurked in the shallow edges of the water. While out on a sailboat two days ago, I spied a seal, its slippery black head and whiskers peeking out to get a look at us. Definitely not a lake, and not really the ocean proper. This was something else entirely. The sound is its own thing.

In a few days I will travel south to the Oregon coast, where I hear there is open water, flat sands, and dark, rocky sea sculptures. In a few days, I'll stand on a foggy beach, content to hear the breaking of the waves and feel the cold air rush around me. In a few days, I'll feel at home, 2,700 miles from my own.

From Now
A week later, and I'm home, sitting at my dining room table. From this angle, when I look out the doors to my backyard, trees almost obsucure the row of apartments just beyond my tall fence. Almost, but not quite. When we started house hunting six years ago, a big yard was one of my top priorities. Now I realize that a private yard is what I really wanted. Having space to live and breathe in isn't all about size; it's about perception and soul. What gives you room to be yourself? How do you feel most at home in the world? Where does your spirit finally hear that still, small voice that whispers to it all the time? For me, it's private green spaces, or even better: a long flat stretch of sand and the blue-grey mix of sky and sea. The sea teaches me many things, this in particular: We can sit in our own homes and feel homesick.

On The Right Path

image by Rodrigo Rodrigo Rodrigo Rodrigo Rodrigo Rodrigo

I had hoped to post several times while I was away over the past two weeks, but that was the by-product of wishful thinking. I spent twelve days in the gorgeous (and recently rainy) state of Vermont, bustling about to lectures, readings, workshops, and cafeteria meals; making new writer friends; and making a few trips down the hill into the sweet town of Montpelier. My first residency for my MFA in Writing program at Vermont College of Fine Arts is over. Now begins the work of the semester. I say "work," because it's not exactly play. But is it exactly work? Yes, 30 pages of original creative writing and two 4-6 page critical essays every month for two years do have the feel of work about them.

But I'm more excited than anything else. I spend so much time second guessing myself and my decisions, wondering if I'm on the right path, worrying about the past, present, and future. What a relief to finally rest in the knowledge that I'm right where I need to be, doing exactly what I'm meant to do. Yes, there is much work ahead, but there is also much joy and comfort in it.

In addition to school work, I'm also still accepting clients and writing assignments. And I hope to be writing here regularly. After all, I didn't put together this new website to let my blog languish.

I'll see you a tiny bit further down the path. In the meantime, I'd love to hear where/how/who've you've been this summer. Drop me a line in the comments.