I woke up with the answer. I know why I feel unorganized, agitated with lists and to-dos, slower than I should or too fast to slow down. I know why I feel meek sometimes, and tired and shrunken.
Last night, I walked into the kitchen and picked a can of Reddi-wip up off the counter. I stared at it, then shook it. Empty.
I walked into the living room with the can in my hand, eyed my son and said, “You ate this for dinner, didn’t you?” He smiled his raised-eyebrow- I-am-so-cute smile, and even though eating Reddi-wip for dinner — especially when your mother has taught you since you were the size of a cocker spaniel, how to cook — is not cute, I just shrugged and walked away. Now I know why.
It’s because I’m not Oprah. It’s fairly simple, really. And, finding the answer has made me feel so much better.
Oh, I picture my life as if I were Oprah!
I’d wake with pretty eyes, because I’d know which eye cream really worked.
My dogs would wake with me, but my bed wouldn’t be subject to the cottonwood leaves and lavender twigs that stick to their doggie bellies and stab me when I roll over at 2 a.m. They’d be groomed weekly.
I’d put on a silken bathrobe, descend the stairs, somewhat like Scarlett O’Hara only far more successful and capable, greet my family and then sit down to an egg-white omelet — which would taste so much better than it sounds. I’d drink decaffeinated coffee, or a healthy green tea — and I’d like it. We’d have no Reddi-wip.
If I were Oprah I’d be strong and glorious all the time. I wouldn’t ruminate about, deny or exaggerate my inadequacies because I’d know myself to be fully capable and past all that messy, boring, doubt, fear and panic. I’d be focused, sharp and full of the kind of action that never drained me and only infused me with more energy for yet more action and creativity.
I’d have a vibrant, speedy pipeline, into which I’d put my heartfelt and important ideas, and they’d come flinging out the other end, fully realized, formed and on their way to implementation.
Yes, I’m full of malarkey.
But, what excuse do you use if you’re not getting your work done? Your heart work. Your hard work. The work you need to do?
Oh, we are all working. Sometimes so much work that we wake like a sudden bolt upright in our beds thinking we missed the meeting, the volleyball practice, the seventh-grade sex-ed class permission slip, the deadline, the almost past-due bill. Then we realize our days are so similar that we mixed up one middle of the night with another.
It’s not this kind of work I am speaking of. No, it’s the harder work. The work — whatever it may be — that insists gently on you and in you. The kind of work that took root long ago and wants to grow stronger. The work that leans and nudges into your brain or heart or soul like a soft sound — round, mellow, full.
I tell my wise friend I feel wedged. He says, “I sense lots of resistance.” I burst out with, “Of course I have resistance! I’m great at resistance!”
“Why?” he says simply to me, who has an answer for everything. I discovered long ago that having an answer for everything makes resistance even more efficient.
But his question stumps me. I think about it as I drive away from his house. It disturbs me, makes me squirm.
We pull the dump-downs moments of “I can’t” around our shoulders and wear them, heavy, in any weather. We mouth fear, and worry and chew on both until our jaws ache.
We have resistance to our own best paths. Why?
For now, it’s because I’m not Oprah (and yes, I know I’m fabricating Oprah’s life and that she’d laugh at how easy I’m making it sound; no one’s heart work is easy, ever).
We all resist. Sometimes we groom the resistance like cottonwood and lavender twigs, stuck to our bellies. We roll over into it at night, then wake in the dark, eyes wide, trying hard to see what’s there.
E-mail Fort Collins poet and writer Natalie Costanza-Chavez at grace-notes@comcast.net. Read more of her essays at .
