Here. I. Go.
On Friday, I had an epiphany, rather circuitous, but an epiphany nonetheless.
Despite a very bright light—a certain Prince P—for a time, my days and nights have been shaded by a very dark cloud: the sudden and unexpected loss of my father. Untethered, grief darkness becomes you. It renders you defenseless, helpless, and has the fierce and heartless ability to steal you, to taint your everything, impair your thinking, empty your cup and render you exhausted, defeated, in the depths of despair, and blah, very, very blah.
Gratefully, as you float towards the your bottom, grief also wakes you up and forces you to look at life hard in its face. A taste of death equals mortality. Your own mortality. Time to size up the girl in the mirror, take stock, do the math. Unplug your ears and listen: tick, tock, tick, tock.
Thursday night was BLAH: The Defeatist of Grief was on a roll.
Time to move on. Life is a fantasy. Plans aren’t working. They were a fantasy. Just like dreams, dreams are a fantasy. Ditto for goals. Time to grow up. Do the write right thing. Move forward. Make a date with practicality, responsibility, maturity. Act my age. Carve sensible plans in concrete and execute. Sensible. Concrete. Execute. Find a box. Move right in. Seal it tight. Tight. Tight. Tighter.
Follow the rules. Get a real job. Work 9 – 5. Cash a cheque. Vacate for three weeks. Turf the sunscreen. Live predictability. Embrace a routine. Bask in security. Skew my values. Learn to practice realism. Zip up my coat. Narrow my mind. Rah, rah, rah.
Friday morning. Up bright and early. PLAN OF THE DAY: Update resume. Search job listings. You go, girl woman.
First things first—COFFEE and news cycle: Opinion250; The Citizen; CBC Saskatchewan, BC, New Brunswick, Canada, the World; Globe and Mail; National Post and…People, frivolous fluff to come up from all that dreadful important stuff. (Must stop People. Not mature.)
Cue the Choir
This is where my epiphany began, smack between CBC World and the National Post, on the Life section of the Globe and Mail App: my July 22 horoscope.
LIBRA (Sept. 24 – Oct. 23): In recent weeks you have looked on in amazement while people with less than half your talent have done well for themselves. Now it is your turn to shine and what happens over the coming weeks will encourage you to stand tall in the spotlight.
Stand tall? (Speechless.) Super significant. To-my-core significant. I’m a believer! Maybe? Maybe!
I HATE boxes: I am claustrophobic and have never found one in which I could fit. I am a misfit, who is not practical, responsible nor mature. I am lucky enough to be different. I am an idealist. I am a dreamer. I wonder. I dream. I wonder. I believe. Imagine.
And what is age? A number on a piece of yellowed paper or laminated card? How do you act it? Where are the instructions? Why should I grow up? What does grown-up mean?
My dream, is a fantasy, write right? Success, whatever that may be, is highly improbable, write right? But, a kazzillion things in this world are improbable, highly improbable, but very few, very, very few, are entirely impossible. After all, for idealists and dreamers, for me, can’t shouldn’t even be a word.
It says, therefore I am.
I can find my writing on Google; there are specific routes required, generally different, very specific references for each of the few pieces out there. On Friday, after the whole horoscope thing, I Googled my name and dared to put “writer” behind it, hit enter and there it was, three results down, “My deepest thanks to writer Linda Glover.” Wow.
Someone, specifically Russell Thomas, the thankful one, also a brilliant and wildly successful artist, considers me a writer! There it is—confirmation, a sign from the epiphany-atic Universe. Amen.
So, fuck forget ‘find a box and move right in.’ Smash the box. Burn it. I am a writer. And. Here. I. Go.
In the late-90’s, I made the minors for a few years. I tricked the Editor of the Clearwater North Thompson Times, Keith McNeil, into giving me an opportunity to be a freelance reporter and, eventually, a columnist of a weekly piece I creatively named Just A Thought. Outside of the humans I love and adore, that opportunity brought me the greatest joy of my life, was my absolute passion. My passion.
I even had a fan. His name was Jack Allen, a little old man (only in stature) who lived in the hills and called me one day, right out of the blue. “You’re what I look forward to. Your writing. Your column. I look forward to it every week. Please, don’t stop.” I did. I lost my muse and, in turn, unapologetically at the time, my new friend Jack.
But I’m back. And it’s time. I AM a writer, a writer who will forever more take to heart the most profound three words ever to vibrate these unplugged ears, from Dharma to Greg, “Follow your bliss!”
Bliss, if we follow it, is a bright light that beckons us through darkness and with its power enables us to let go, to feel and face our fear, to feel alive. Bliss is a state. This is bliss.
So, here’s to you, Jack, my new muse who shines down from the Universe, and a new rendition, yet to be named, of Just a Thought.
Hold on tight, Jack. Who knows where we’ll go?