Like the clouds

My mom said horses were frivolous too.

i am like the clouds:
blowing, changing --
occasionally
just not there.
at times,
you step out to find me
remarkably effervescent:
other days
i'm unrelentlessly 
the worst.

this does not make for
productive life habits,
even though the good
and kind meteorologists
do try to give us
a heads up.
there's no phD 
for me. not even I
know what's to come
with the morning winds.

i use a shared calendar.
i make to-do lists
i try to plan ahead
for the emptier
spaces in my days --
i have a white board
covered with rainbow inky 
big rocks broken down
into bite-sized 
good intentions.

no one blames the clouds
for being scattered.
a misty afternoon 
makes for hearty
naps, especially after 
the unmitigated *success!!* 
of a stretch of sunny days--

if only a human could
embody cool liquid 
refreshment,
the satisfying ahhhhh;
if she could drift on by
tossing shade 
as needed,
could survive off 
the promising thrill
(delicious
shivery thrill) of
a far-off thunder 
maybe, maybe not
on its way.

---

I am in the middle of a midlife crisis that is really just a later-in-life version of my all-life struggle with my sense of self. Which, in addition to being existentially woeful, now and then finds itself treading in the waters of depression.

I don’t believe there’s any place out here in “social media” that is all that healthy for folks like me who struggle with one’s self-worth and self-esteem. However, writing for the world is something I agreed with myself to do, and so I continue to do it.

Sometimes I am hopefully effervescent. Other times, life feels like a portentous breath of cold air.

I appreciate other makers/writers/artists out there in the world who share their feelings. I don’t know if it is a safe thing to share: ultimately I wonder if me sharing my feelings can seem manipulative. Does sharing one’s occasional/daily sense of shame and existential terror valuable? Is it just a cry for attention?

But then I ask myself, on social media, what isn’t? I do not know. All of it starts to feel very un-real. Some of it feels like filler.

Anyway, the impulse for this poem was thinking about how difficult it has been for me to come to terms with my creative practice.

There’s always this sense that it should be “achieving” some kind of success — monetary, followers, reach, publishing, whatever. And ultimately I feel like this need to succeed puts up a creative roadblock. I do not know how to be creative and also be a person who exists in a “normal,” working world where success and ROI occurs. Yet, when I “feel normal” (sort of “in the flow”) I realize I am doing something that literally makes no money and equates to something my math teacher Mom would define as “frivolous.”

I keep trying to do something useful and meaningful, and, now at age 56, I feel like all I have found is the ultimate recipe for failure in both regards.

In fact, I feel as if the one successful thing I could do is write a timeline of my life and call it: “How to Be a Big Fat Failure as a Writer.” Or maybe to make money and market it better: “10 Things In A Row To Not Do in Order to Be a Writer!”

Why version do you like better?

In case you can’t tell, I use self-deprecation as a way to manifest my depression. Waa-hoo.

My mom said horses were frivolous.