What the hell am I doing?

Okay, I’ll be honest. I am embarrassed. I mean, full of downright….eye-contact avoiding, giggly and crippling embarrassment….wondering if I never should have put myself and my crazy, out there. Was I silly? Who was I speaking to? What are they saying? Who are they? And do they matter?

It’s the kind of discomfort where I feel like I need to make a joke next, for everyone else’s sake….some self-effacing distraction that tells everyone that I’m okay.

If you missed it, my first writing was on Facebook, a medium where I hadn’t been an active participant, in years. And it was mildly painful.

I’m still proud of everything I said, but the pure intention was crowded out by my incessant need to make sure everything is okay…wondering if my words were off-putting, or if people just didn’t care. I didn’t go into the experience looking for kudos, but after time, the lack thereof, or from certain people, took my focus. When I first hit post, I was brimming with excitement, but a week of aftermath left me staring at a glass half-empty.

So this medium keeps me a little safer. I know not who reads it…period. That’s good for me.

My husband asked me yesterday morning who I’m trying to talk to when I write. I easily admitted that I didn’t quite know. I mean, I’m not seeking a captive audience where the reader has no other option but to read my digressions. That’s not very nice.

My friend told me that when she read my first post, that she felt like I was singing to her. Hearing that made me cry…but I just don’t know if that’s enough.

Of course it matters to me that she felt that way! I never expected that, and she probably never expected that when she compared my writing to when I sing….she gave me the greatest compliment she ever could have. Because I know why I sing. I figured that out a long time ago.

But what if I simply would have sent that writing to her alone? Well, that never would have happened, right? We often don’t know what we need and what to give to others, specifically.

I want to do something…I mean, dooooo something. And always these thoughts come clearest at 4 am, where I have nowhere else to voice them except here, where I won’t disturb anyone…here where my inner musings won’t be thwarted by schedules and making lunches and

This is only my 3rd writing, and I’m already embarrassed. Jesus. You think I’ve quit things a little early at other times in my life? Please don’t answer that.

I’ve never even had the patience and willingness to journal, or be a consistent reader, for that matter. A houseful of books never finished, and a heart full of intentions never realized. I’ve tried journaling a few times, only leaving the endeavor because either: I didn’t know what to say, or because I feared that I wouldn’t say it good enough. I hadn’t synthesized enough thought. I judged my own abilities before an idea was even fleshed out. I mean, I sure as hell didn’t want to see that it wasn’t good enough. Journaling. JOURNALING, writing for MYSELF was even too risky. I’m the worst judge ever. And my intake of words was about the same. I was an US Weekly kind of reader, single pagers, where I could visibly see the end of my commitment to it.

I’ve come a long way in the last few months. What started out as quiet mornings with TED Talks has turned into legal pads of one-liners that I’ve heard or produced myself, lots of Amazon ordering of books from people I respect, and a growing knowledge and understanding of what I believe….and what I want to say.

So….the words simply won’t stop. Some kind of synthesis of thought is occurring and seems to overpower me, and writing it down calms my crazy, and allows me move on. So maybe it’s just for me. And that should be perfectly okay. That should be enough. I’m working on that.

But the real honesty lies in the fact that I’ve identified one of the things which has often held me back. I’ve always been somewhat bold, unafraid to try new things, pretty darn self-assured….but then what I thought was humility always enters the room at some point…looks at me kind of funny, and never says a word….just tilts it’s head sideways and beckons a response. Gives me that look my mother did when I had done something disappointing, as if to say….”You know what you did. Why don’t you stay in your room and figure it out?”

She didn’t actually do this, I did it to myself.

It’s not humility. It is just doubt. Ugly-faced, scary doubt. With it’s big sister Fear right behind her, egging her on. They are the popular girls that get credit for doing nothing of substance, and who invited them to the party anyway?

So, I’m choosing to write, write for awhile. It may just be what gets me to the next right thing. Or, it may be just another part of synthesizing my present view, where I can take a panoramic picture of what’s around me and look back on it every now and then.

I sincerely pledge not to edit too much. And that asks that you take me as I am. I may not say it perfectly the first time, but I’ll sure as hell learn something in trying. And some of you know that I may cuss. Not for emphasis, but because that’s just what I do. I don’t strive for gentility in a proper sense. Sometimes jennifer may drop the f bomb. You know, jennifer, the improper noun.

I said earlier that I already know why I sing. That’s true. Singing, producing music, came to mean something more to me when I felt and understood that it best served myself and others, when I connected with others. That demanded my own personal investment in the action, and also asked that of the receiver….or even the participants, if I was singing with others.

In college, I started singing at funerals for extra cash. It was simple, because I knew every traditional hymn by heart, so any practice time was little to nil, and I liked that. But not too long into this work, I found myself annoyed. Even hurt, by the way I had been going about this business.

Here I was, invited into one of the most personal experiences that many of us will ever endure, and I was being paid. So, I decided that I would at least ask myself to invest exactly what those in attendance were. I listened to the service, tried to understand who the person was, and watched the family and friends. This is not a comfortable exercise…for anyone. But strangely enough, I could do it. Now…..the challenge was that I eventually had to sing. So, I worked at controlling emotion, thoughtfully communicating the text, tried to be musically expressive, and looked people in the eyes. Always in the eyes…even family members crying on the first pew. Because it was important work, and to look above their heads was to deny them as human beings and was an affront to the soul that was being celebrated. This belief may have been a little dramatic, but true to me, nonetheless.

And after the service? Oh yeah, I’d cry in the car driving back to my apartment.

I hope this style of writing does the same thing….in some indirect way. I hope I give you words, and that what I can’t give you in melody, I give you in love.

I started this piece earlier this morning, in the darkness when no one else knew what I was doing, except for a few people in my life…my God and the voices in my head. They are all quite funny and good company most of the time. I kept singing a song in my head that hit one of my Spotify playlists a few weeks ago. The chorus says, “We are swimming with no clothes on, in a river in the dark. And I am holding on to you, boy, in the faint light of the stars.”

I am indeed swimming with no clothes on when I write. I didn’t do that ever, EVER until I was an adult in my 40’s with my husband. I was breathless with excitement and riddled with fun, and I truly wouldn’t have cared if we had been caught in that river. It was just toooooo much fun. I want that kind of fun every day.

Sending this out into the world is my punt. There’s no playbook, just a scrappy little kid ready on the field, mouthpiece in, shorts pulled up too high.

I had to take a break from writing this earlier this morning, and I’m finishing up this post at my 9 year old’s flag football game, chilling in my camp chair in the shade (don’t worry, the game hasn’t started yet). I just put in my ear pods and turned on “In a River.” It just got to the instrumental bridge where it sounds so playful I want to jump up and start a folksy jig.

I am naked and it’s not a dirty secret. Writing this now, giving everything to this conscious expression, is my inside joke with a crass punchline. You’ll have to decide for yourself if it’s tacky or just plain ole’ funny.

I’m not getting caught.

I am asking you to jump in with me. But you have to take your clothes off first.