“This is how we make important changes – barely, poorly, slowly.”
— Anne Lamott
It is important to know, for the purposes of this post, that I believe in God. I pray, and everything. This is not a religious blog, and you don’t need to be religious to be welcome in this community, but it’s important to me so it’s important to this post.
So anyway, last week I was utterly furious at God. I tried to play it off as frustration, but if it was frustration it howled from deep down inside me. I raged from a terribly fragile, terribly hurt place. As silly as it feels to type out, I felt betrayed.
Against my wiser (or crueler) instincts, I bought into the Instagram version of spirituality. The version that says the second you pretend you are happier, more worthy, ready, the world will open up for you in a big, firework burst. Anecdotally, I have seen and benefitted from beginner’s luck in the past; that magical phenomenon whereby once you decide to embark on something new the universe opens up to let you try it.
I felt betrayed because I bought into that mindset, and things were not working out that way.
Recently, I decided two things: I would audition in earnest again, and I would go to the gym regularly for the first time in my life.
I have spent pretty much my entire adolescence and adulthood considering myself a performer. But for about 6 years I shied away from the type of performing I wanted to do (musical theater) and towards opera, a more noble, intellectual artistic pursuit (so they say).
Opera singers are like white tigers; actors are like stray cats with mange. Saying “I’m an opera singer” makes people’s eyes widen. They are either very impressed by one’s ability to sing opera or very embarrassed by their lack of knowledge around it. Often both. Actors are a dime a dozen; there is a wealth of media warning you not to be an actor (often in lines said by actors themselves).
After 6 years of trying to fit into a world I never wanted to inhabit in the first place, I took a break. And a few months ago, I decided the break was over. I was tired of being ashamed of a dream I’ve had as long as I can remember. I was tired of shoving myself into the wrong mold.
And as for the exercise? Well, it’s been the biggest capital-s Should of my life. Everyone is supposed to, right? I always viewed exercise as a punishment for my laziness and sloth. Never mind that before the pandemic I had a ridiculously over-scheduled life that left me no energy for exercise, as well as holding multiple jobs at once that required me to be on my feet at all times. Never mind that ADHD screws with your sleep schedule and energy levels, and also diminishes the energetic “high” that most people feel after working out.
So I set out to work out more, and I set out to audition for real. According to Instagram, all of my dreams would come true. I’d become the tan (ha), fit goddess I’ve always wanted to be, and I’d instantly land a role in a musical that would send my performing career skyrocketing. Things have been, disappointingly, far more normal.
Am I proud of myself for doing more auditions in the past 2 months than I did in the preceding 2 years? Am I proud that I’ve worked out more times in the past 3 weeks than I did my entire 2 years of graduate school combined? Am I grateful for the well-paid gigs I’ve had for the past few years? Am I grateful for the comprehensive and inexpensive rec center I found for my workouts? Am I appreciative of the supportive and wonderful boyfriend, family, and friends who’ve always encouraged me?
No. I’ve been a sad, pitiful mess.
All I’ve been able to see is the shows I haven’t been cast in. The knee that’s acting up and preventing me from working out even more. The casting directors who won’t make eye contact, and the scale that refuses to budge, despite the fact that I feel better and stronger every day. For the past few weeks, the very mean voice in my head has been looking for torment fuel, and it’s found it. I want easy answers and instant “yes”es, and I’m getting barely, poorly, slowly.
A little while ago, after my friends cancelled a weekend camping trip, I knew I needed to find a way to get to the mountains anyway. After being lost in my sour, impertinent thoughts, I knew I needed to feel small in a good way. I drove a few hours west, found a trail, then found a quiet fork in the trail. Following the river, I hiked alone with my thoughts and my water bottle. Nature usually calms me down right away, but I still felt restless, unsettled and jittery.
On a clearly marked part of the trail, I turned away from the river and climbed up some boulders, determined to find one big enough to hide behind. I felt like hiding from everything. When I found a suitable candidate, and crouched behind it, I immediately started to pray. “What am I doing. Is any of this making a difference? I feel so – “
Keep going.
I literally heard a voice say it. It actually interrupted my thoughts. Like it was impatient with me.
Keep going.
The voice was tired of me feeling sorry for myself, and so was I. Tired of over-thinking and over-questioning and fatalistically deciding that no matter how hard I try it will never matter. Tired of turning a blind eye to progress and effort and gratefulness.
I turned back around, clambered back down the boulders, and found the path again. I hiked back towards my car, and noticed some cairns I had missed earlier (a bit heavy-handed, don’t you think, God?). I stopped to smell a ponderosa pine (they smell like vanilla caramel). The river was loud and boisterous, and I smiled momentarily at the notion that there could be a rusalka in it.
Since that moment in the woods, nothing has changed except my resolve to try another day. That’s still progress.
Barely, poorly, slowly.
Note: as an experienced hiker who chose a very popular trail, I felt comfortable hiking alone but it is generally not advisable or wise to do so.
