Some weeks are for doing, some are for being.
Last week was dominated by doing, all of it filled with a spark.
This week is for being—my period is already enough.
On the days that my estrogen levels drop and my vacant uterus sheds its lining, I bask in a distant haze. I am a pancake on a chipped plate at a roadside diner. I’m flattened by the weight of maple syrup, I will cuddle up to the scrambled eggs. Nothing in life is guaranteed, but I’ve learned that fighting this feeling only leads to more exhaustion.
My body calls for a breath. Time to parse through what was, what is and what will be. In these moments, life comes back to haunt you—but in a friendly way.
I’ve been visited by the memory of my third grade teacher. Ms. T had a policy called Ask Three, Then Me. This would teach the value of community and make us a little resourceful. I now find the concept absolutely genius, but back then it was terrifying. I was new to the school and my social skills were rusty at best. I’d dropped out of my old school to attempt homeschooling; instead I spent a solitary year studying a Jane Austin biography and bringing cereal to my bedridden mother. Don’t knock it till you try it!
I did my best to obey the Ask Three rule, but sometimes nerves would take over. I’d forget the whole performance and make a beeline to Ms. T. She’d sit at her desk with a pair of reading glasses that were employed more as a prop than a utility. As I approached, she’d delicately remove the glasses from the bridge of her nose and hold them off to the side with an air of disbelief. Despite knowing what was coming, I was in too deep. I’d gulp down a breath and present my question. Instead of an answer, she’d throw a question right back. Did you ask three, then me?
Caught. I’d slink away, digging my nails into my palms.
The truth is, I’d rather prostrate myself on the cold earth and beg the worms for an answer than look to other people for an assist. Showing the soft belly of need and being rejected is enough to send me marching straight into the sea. But if I can stop myself from total self-destruction, maybe I can work up the courage to ask someone else. I guess it’s called Ask THREE for a reason.
Part of the blockage comes from the illusion that I’ll get a full transformative answer from one source. If that doesn’t happen, the whole attempt was a disaster. Realistically, asking just earns a tiny piece of a much larger puzzle. You’re offered a gradual step. I still have to facilitate taking it. More often than not, I’ll get an answer that floats for a while, patiently waiting to make sense in the grand scheme. Puzzles are one of the most boring peaceful hobbies. Why can’t the process of joining untethered answers feel the same? Could there be joy in finding a place for every fragmented opportunity? Satisfaction in watching them snap into a coherent path?
To do that, I need to ask way more than three questions.
Practice makes perfect. I stopped listening to podcasts last month (hold for applause), leaving me a lot of time to listen to the neighborhood waking up. I found myself talking aloud on morning walks while Joey plowed through overgrown grass. I began questioning the dewy sidewalks. What did I want from the day, the week, what’s something big I’m working towards? I usually do this sort of exercise in a notebook, but a spoken inquiry felt intense and intimate. It was cute and exciting to hear my voice ask.
Shortly after these vocal warm-ups, I asked a real person for help. I felt very vulnerable but I knew I’d laid enough groundwork on my own. Getting support was a natural next step. I looked at what I had and could see what I needed. It wasn’t a magic wand solution.
I imagined myself like an orchard. When the trees grow big enough, you need extra hands to harvest the fruit. That’s exactly what I got.
Polite society has a sneaky way of shaming the expansive process. If you’re not a self-sufficient girl-boss baby-angel, then why should you get a seat at the table? There’s only so much to go around. Asking for help is just draining a finite pool of resources.
There have been times I believed the scarcity conditioning. I’ve aimed to please by scattering my worth to the wind. You just hope someone’s watching, but it’s not really what people want. Why choose death by a thousand cuts? It takes work to renew your spirit and accept that there is no real ideal. Humanity is built on a series of trials and errors that have somehow functioned long enough to get me here, typing to you.
Asking a question conjures an opening in time’s fabric. Sometimes you ask and the cosmic cloth doesn’t budge. Perhaps the question needs reframing—or redirection. You don’t need to get an answer right away. Just the act of asking can transport you through a few layers.
No can be just as helpful as yes. Every puzzle needs blank pieces to fill in the image. I’ll take it all.
That’s it for today.
xx
James
oh, how this resonates so! your second to last paragraph and specifically the line, “just the act of asking can transport you through a few layers” reminds me of a recently underlined bit from the Bhagavad Gita: “action is greater than inaction: perform therefore thy task in life. even the life of the body could not be if there were no action.”
I swear you have a telescope into my mind, or maybe universally we enter the same inquisitive era. either way, reading your words always leaves my brain feeling like releasing the tension in your jaw when you finally notice you’ve been clenching it.