So, What Do I DO?

You know what can really mess with my head? @#$%$# compliments.

Just as I decide I'm going to step back from something that's stressing me out, somebody tells me I'm good at it. I'm such a sucker for that. It happened with improv. It's happened with music. And now it's happening with acting. 

Tonight I had two separate conversations with people who told me that I'm good at acting and that, if I want to do it, I certainly should. It was very nice to hear. But it doesn't align nicely with my plan to stop doing stuff.

Perhaps the question is, if I am going to do something, whether I really want to do it, or whether I'm doing it because I think it can lead to something else. I think I need to do things because I will enjoy them presently and directly, and not because I see them merely as gateways to something else that could, possibly, eventually, be enjoyable. That's a rabbit hole I've gone down before, and it ain't fun.

I probably will end up doing Things. But I still think that Letting Go is an important part of that. I need to be free not to do them. I need to be able to sit in my apartment and watch TV episodes without feeling guilty for not spending the time "pursuing my dreams." I need to be able to watch them without comparing myself to every actor that's in them. I need to enjoy the process, not just the occasional result, or the hope of a result. I need to enjoy the present for itself, not just as a stepping stone to a future that I do not have full control over.

I suppose I should know by now not to make definitive, blanket statements. This blog could well be titled Holly Works Through Some Shit.  But the Letting Go was an important declaration. I don't know how it will play out, but it was important to say.

Maybe my own blog posts are among the things I need to let go. Is that too corny to even make sense? I dunno. It's late and I've had wine.

Letting Go

I resurrected this blog because I had some issues to work through regarding happiness and this felt like the place to do it. Things have recently taken an unexpected turn, and I haven't been sure how to write about it, but I'm going to try.

I think I mentioned finding it difficult to hold, simultaneously, the need to live up to my potential on one hand, and the need to find happiness and contentment in the present on the other. The state of my heart was revealed a couple weeks ago as I was looking at a picture of a dying woman. She was outside on a sunny day, and I wondered if she found any happiness in that moment. Then I wondered if I, who am so good at being unhappy, would be able to find happiness in such a moment. It surprised me that I imagined I would. (It's probably worth paying attention when one envies the dying.) The reason: The weight of my future would be off my shoulders. I think one of the biggest reasons I don't enjoy the present as much as I would like to is that the future weighs too heavily upon it. Perhaps living up to my potential, while a valid need, is unduly taking precedence over the need to find contentment and happiness now. Perhaps contentment is a need whose time has come.

Thus, I intend to let go. Let go of the ambition, so much of which felt too broadly distributed to be effective, but which I am unwilling to narrow down. Let go of the need to "make something" of myself, to prove to myself and the world that I am good at things and a hard worker. Let go of the idea that my life isn't what it should be, and an indication that I must not deserve more. I haven't been happy, largely because I've felt like I shouldn't be happy -- that I haven't reached an acceptable plateau, one that would merit maintaining instead of continued scrambling up the cliffside. But perhaps where I am right now would be perfectly enjoyable if I allowed myself to relax and simply maintain it.

-- I won't need to wait until I've worked up the oomph to learn monologues, so I can then take auditions, so I can be in more plays, so I can be a respected actress, so that then I can be happy.

-- I won't need to keep taking hours out of my precious days off to take awkward auditions for commercials, so that I can eventually get paying gigs, so I can be earning more money, so that then I can be happy.

-- I won't have to wonder, with each blog post, whether it will land me a book deal so I can finally say I've achieved something, and my hard work will have paid off, and the world will listen to what I have to say and everyone will like me, and then I can be happy.

-- I won't need to make myself go out more than I want and pretend to be more outgoing than I am and try to enjoy the same "fun" other people enjoy so I can meet the right guy, so we can fall in love and get married, so that then I can be happy.

-- I can stop worrying about how my jeans fit and whether I'm exercising enough, because disease and illness would of course be my fault, and also I want to be attractive, and then I'll know I'm doing everything right and then I can be happy.

I will just be happy. Now. At last. If happiness is a capacity that we can cultivate, then this choice to let go is how I think I will best cultivate it.

I won't have to be sad at holidays because I'm another year older and my circumstances haven't changed much. My life carries an undercurrent of fear that I don't have much to show for my 39 years on this planet because I'm too shy or too scared or too lazy, or all three, and I'm left in this uncomfortable limbo where I don't feel safe relaxing, but the motivation to do more would only be guilt and fear.

This is what I want to let go of.

My job may not make me rich or famous, but it is good and it suits me and it is enough. My apartment may not be big enough to hold all my stuff, but it is affordable and I have it to myself and it is enough. I may be sensitive and complicated and slow to find my way, but I am myself and I am enough.

Each seed of a moment won't be a disappointment because it failed to lead to some preconceived idea of success. It can just be a yummy little seed that I enjoyed while it existed; and perhaps joy is the best thing I could ask of my moments for a while.

This means I may not have interesting updates when people ask me how things are progressing -- the career, the search for a condo, my love life -- but when asked how I am, I will be able to say, "Well. I am doing really, really well."

Hobbit Hole

After 8 1/2 years of living with roommates, I was ready to be on my own again. Of course, I live in Boston, which means that I can't afford a place of my own. Even most "affordable" studios are more than double what I can pay. What I needed were landlords who were more concerned with finding the right person than with bringing in a lot of money.

Would you believe that I found it? I moved in at the end of August. It's super-teeny, but I was able to take it happily, largely because I considered it temporary. Reliable people had declared that it's often more affordable to buy a condo than rent an apartment in Beantown, so my plan was to start looking for a condo to buy.

Then two things happened:
1. I talked to a couple mortgage lenders and figured out what I can afford in this area, which is nothing.
2. This little apartment is starting to grow on me.

As a kid, I found small spaces cozy and safe. I daydreamed of having a little clubhouse sort of place, where I could hunker down with my favorite belongings around me, close at hand. This apartment feels like the adult realization of this dream.

Like I said, it's super tiny. Like, no-living-area, can't-have-visitors tiny. But that's OK. It's also underground, in a basement. So I call it my Hobbit Hole. I don't get to sit around blowing smoke rings (I suspect hobbit holes did not have smoke alarms), but I do get to sleep about five yards away from my fridge. I can place one hand on my kitchen sink and the other on my bathroom sink, simultaneously, without straining. The washer and dryer are right outside my door, so I have to exert almost no effort to do that chore. And best of all, the only insanity, dysfunction, or neediness I have to come home to is my own. All my new roommates are spiders, and they are wonderfully low-maintenance.

So I might stay put for a while and enjoy this. I can maybe go the affordable housing route and still try to buy a condo, and have the pleasure of decorating it, but for now, I think I'd like to hunker down. Let's see how cozy this place gets in the winter.

PodCandy Is Gone

Apparently, one's podcast disappears if it falls into disuse for too long a time. I let Holly's PodCandy lapse because I wasn't up to the task of learning how to edit the material myself. It looks like the page where one used to find the podcasts no longer exists, and the little device to the side of my blog no longer shows them, either. I also see no evidence that it remains on iTunes. This all seems a bit sad.

So Much to Say, So Little Ability to Organize My Thoughts

When I restarted this blog almost two weeks ago, I had all sorts of stuff that I wanted to process here. And it's still running through my mind. But nearly all the possible topics overlap, and I'm having trouble deciding how to break them down into individual blog posts. Also, much of what I have to work through is negative, which is why I have to work through it. I don't want folks getting all depressed, or worrying about me. And I sure as hell am not looking for advice. So I've been running through a lot of possibilities in my head, but not putting much out there that you can see.

I did buy a notebook and some pencils. That was fun. I really dig pencils and paper. And lists. I like making lists of things. I have a whole little Moleskine filled with them, actually: grocery and toiletry lists, to-do lists, gift ideas, books to look for at the library, accessories I should try to wear before the weather gets too cold. It's really satisfying. Anyway, I thought I could do a lot of the brain work of writing if I had a notebook with me during my breaks at work and while I travel on public transportation. It's helped a bit.

Maybe I need to get a bit meta, because writing this blog raises so many issues in itself. For example, I thought giving some attention to the Writer part of Musician Actress Comedian Writer Princess would relieve some of the pressure that had been building up around the Acting part. But no sooner had I decided that, than the pressure just transferred to Writing. I kind of hate that my mind works this way. Why can't things be fun? I always have such high hopes and standards for the things I care about that these things become burdensome, obligatory, and not fun enough to make the difficulty worthwhile. Ugh.

Being happy is not my strong point. Neither is being content. Or OK with most things about myself, or about my life. That tends to make things harder. I would like to be happy. I'm working on it. There's always some reason to feel guilty: The weight gains I've had after my surgeries, not keeping my apartment clean enough, awkward interactions with people that might be my fault, spending too much time on Facebook. It's always something, and if it weren't that thing, it would be something else. It's one of those issues where being conscious of it doesn't necessarily make it go away; in fact, I'll often then start to get down on myself for allowing myself to feel guilty. I'm pretty brilliant like that.

My hope is that I'll occasionally have a little revelation that makes things easier to handle, and then I can share it here. Until then, I may have blog posts that look like emotional Before pictures.

We work with what we have, right?

No Union

I just learned that I missed my twenty-year high school reunion. I got no invitation, and saw nothing on Facebook apart from one oblique reference between two former classmates about seeing each other in October. Over the past several months, I tossed out a few lines, both on my Facebook wall and in messages to friends, asking if anything was happening and when. I never got a response. It's like the universe wanted to make sure I didn't go.

I would be OK with that, actually. I'm a God person, and I believe He does stuff like that. Maybe I wasn't meant to go, even if I don't know why. I know better than to let myself dwell on the possibility that I'm still as invisible to people as I was in high school (I was voted Most Bashful), and to see this as evidence that nobody cared one way or the other whether I was there. Kind of hard not to let the thought slip into my head, though.

It's not like high school was a great time that I wish to relive. It's not like I have a list of impressive accomplishments I want to share with people. The fact that I was interested in going was, in my mind, evidence that I've developed enough self-confidence to attend despite all this. So it's weird that I still would have missed it without meaning to.

But I had a dress in mind. I would have looked pretty damn hot for my 38 years. And isn't that the important, part, really?