Show Up

Damn Girl. You are full of surprises.

(Art)

There was a day back in 2018 when some super bad things happened in my personal life. I had been ignoring my intuition and the results came a callin’. Slapped me like a big cold slimy hard-flung fish. I was in a hazy shock when I got home from learning of the results of not listening to my intuition. It would bring me a load of residual trouble over the next couple of years. I felt stupid and ashamed.

That night, there was an art show. It was a collaboration between an artist I knew and an artist I had not met but had been following for years on the IG. When I lived in Venezuela from 2012-16, I stumbled across his work, and coincidentally he lived in Atlanta, where I returned when I moved back to the States. His work provided connection to my Southern roots, and a source of wonder and humor for me. His themes run from layers of colors, characters and scenes, and what feels like flashes of thoughts or memories, woven with shapes and patterns, and some treasured gems, especially so far from home: Southern dialect.

A few of my personal favorites:

But back to the day of the fish slap and the feeling stupid and the trouble that I knew on some level I was in for until I could fix the problem. My kids were 9 and 11 at the time. I’ve raised them consciously ensuring they have adventures and are exposed to creativity. In Venezuela, we got to know a community of artists and for the first time in my life, began attending shows and gatherings of creatives. Even though I had only just started making small art in private, and testing the waters with writing, I found myself in scenes–makeshift galleries, the local museum, potluck dinner parties under palm trees–I felt I was always supposed to be.

That night’s event was going to be a one-of-a-kind. I could have easily sat home to dwell on the fuckery my life was about to become. But something deep down said: To what end? There was nothing I could do or control or effect in one night. It was going to take more than one night for the blow to settle in, for the haze to dissipate and to be able to begin planning for the fallout.

So I told the kids we were going for a fun night out.

We showed up. 

For them, even if they don’t vividly remember when they’re older, experiences like that settle into the subconscious. They’ve got a permanent nutrient of creativity they were exposed to, along with residual peacefulness and  hopefulness that comes from being welcomed by cool, nice people. That alone was not worth losing over the potential of me staying home and punishing myself. That act would have served no one. (There would be plenty of time to punish myself, and don't think I missed the opportunity.)

For me, I took away the perfect piece of art. It was a message meant for me, and it hangs where I see it every day:

Damn Girl. You showed up. You did it. You can do hard things. You're gonna be ok. Damn Girl, you’re full of surprises.

Also, I listen to The Knowing a lot better now. I no longer question it. In fact, proudly, my worst flub in that department in recent years has been the paint color on my house. It’s not bad, it just wasn’t my first choice. It’s what I thought other people would want, in the future when I sell it. So the next big house project (after the roof, snore) is to paint it back to my happiness.

Not belonging was nobody's fault but my own.

(Adventure)

I’ve long had a weird issue with Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina. A minor beef. A defensiveness of sorts. A subtle middle finger kind of feeling. Also, I love the place.

Wrightsville Beach is the coastal community just across the waterway from Wilmington, the town that holds the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, my alma mater. 

My 14-year old daughter and I recently went on summer holiday there at my old college stomping grounds. I introduced the kids to it when we moved back from Venezuela in 2017, and they loved it. We’ve been going there about every other year since. 

My son couldn’t join us this year. He’s a rising senior in high school angling for a college football scholarship, so he stayed behind to attend some college camps and tournaments. It was a quieter trip, and though we missed him, there was definitely more reading:

And a lot of me picturing him fishing on the pier:

Wilmington–and Wrightsville Beach in particular–have a certain vibe that I mostly connect with. Being there has always felt like a sigh of relief, a comfort zone. It’s a smaller-town surfing and fishing energy–more “secret” and intimate-feeling than bigger, more popular beach towns. And people are generally nice. (Having lived in a big city for too long now, things like this are noticeable.)

But back to the twist in my panties about it. In one facet of my 5 years of life there, I totally took up space. I lived one block from the ocean, surfed (poorly, and only in warm weather, but I had nothing to prove), loved my classes and internship at the uni, waited tables, and made great friends, some of whom I’ve kept to this day. I would ride my bike along some of the most beautiful tree-lined roads that opened up into the waterway and marinas, and visit my bartender friends on my days off for free drinks at their bars (it was an unspoken network exchange among all college waitstaff).

In another, hidden, facet, I felt like I didn’t quite belong. As far as I could see, all the kids were there on their parents’ money. If they worked, it was for fun money. They drove decent cars, had nice clothes and cool jewelry, got their nails done, and went on Spring Break trips.

I worked 5 nights a week–including Spring Breaks. My money wasn’t for play–it was for rent, food, and gas for my beater car. I didn’t get a check from my parents every month. In fact, I didn’t even get a phone call. My parents had long since checked out and moved on. I had two pairs of cutoff jean shorts, and wore my sneakers until they were smooth on the soles. No manicures, hair color, or eyebrow waxes. I purposely took on the rough, tangly-haired beach bum look–let’s say I leaned in to work with what I had. Which wasn’t much. I felt like “not much” when I stood among others with cute outfits and opportunities I assumed were not for people like me.

It was apparent that I wasn’t like them. And I thought we all knew it.

This year when I returned, it struck me in full color and at full volume: It’s still essentially the same people there. They’re still nice. There’s the same food. The same history. The same smells, vibe, and sunwashed energy. (The real estate is more expensive, however. But that’s the same story in everywhere these days.)

I felt different standing in the scene there.

Turns out, my issue wasn’t with the place, or the people, but with the version of myself when I was in that place long ago.

I showed up–as the same person I’ve always been inside. Sure I have a career now, I'm raising two teenagers on my own and doing a dang fine job of it, and I even have some cute outfits. 

“Not belonging” was nobody’s fault but my own. 

Nobody ever did or said anything to make me feel like I wasn’t worthy of being there. That was all my doing.  

All I ever had to do was the same thing I did back then: Just show up. Who I am is enough for any place I really like to be. But only in the past few years has being me finally felt like enough. So returning as a different version of me– same inside, transformed energy– made the whole experience different.

It’s not about being grown up now, or having nicer things. I certainly can’t afford a beach house there, and that’s totally fine. I don’t need to in order to enjoy the things about the place that I love. 

I belong wherever I want to belong. 

Nothing to prove. 

Sometimes revisiting a place that holds profound pieces of your life can move things. 

What I know is that this time I felt more comfortable. Like I belonged there. 

The morning we had to leave, I walked up to the beach with my coffee. I took it all in with joy: the surfers, the people doing yoga, the sunrise nerds, the freshness of the waves, the isolated sounds without the mixtape of the wind, kids, and seagulls that would flock there later in the morning. From seemingly nowhere, words came from deep within me into my consciousness: “To be continued…”

I think I'll keep showing up.

Buy the ticket, take the ride

(Books & Words)

I’m reading “Contagious - Why Things Catch On” by Jonah Berger. I love me a good dive into human psychology and what drives people. It explores key principles behind why things catch on–from advertising to products to ideas.

With social media especially, there’s SO much…SO FRIGGIN MUCH…to take in (oh by the way, don’t actually try to take it all in because it will drive you bats with anxiety and overwhelm and feelings of extreme under accomplishment), and I’ve wondered lately how some things bubble to the top of this giant, complex, loud stewbowl of stuff?? So this book caught my eye at the book shop and it seemed like great timing to answer this nagging question. 

But that’s not what I’m highlighting here. So let’s talk about the unintentional gold nugget.

In the chapter on how Emotion plays an important role in why things catch on, the author described how a campaign launched by Google to highlight the functionality of its new search interface turned into a viral sensation. The summary is as follows:

It starts when a guy enters “study abroad Paris France” and clicks on one of the top search results to learn more. Later he searches “cafés near the Louvre,” and scans to find one he thinks he’ll like. You hear a female laugh in the background as his next entry is “translate tues très mignon,” which he soon learns is French for “you are very cute.” Quickly he then seeks advice on how to “impress a French girl,” reads up on the suggestions, and searches for chocolate shops in Paris.

The music builds as the plot unfolds. We follow the searcher as he transitions from seeking long-distance relationship advice to job hunting in Paris. We see him tracking a plane’s landing time and then searching Paris for churches (to the accompaniment of church bells in the background). Finally, as the music crescendos, we see him asking how to assemble a crib. The video ends with a simple message. “Search on.”

Mr. Berger's point was about the Emotion it evoked. Taken a different way, from the theme of my post here, I would say the video could end with “Show up.”

When people don’t show up–for their family, friends, neighbors, community…and themselves–life is an undeveloped, poorly edited version of itself, full of assumptions, resentments, and longing instead of curiosity, glee, and that deep breath of satisfaction when you can look around and say to yourself, “Damn, girl.”

The young man behind the screen in the Google ad kept showing up out there. The things he searched for expanded, surely unplanned and unimagined, each time he kept showing up. That concept is what struck me. That’s the gold nugget wrapped in that story. 

The only way to maximize your time on this planet, to expand yourself, in the meatbag your soul was dropped into, is to show up. IT AIN'T NATURAL to pull into a garage every day, close out the world life, and allow a screen to do one’s living for them. Say hi to the neighbors. Put down the phones and HABLAR ENTRE SÍ. Learn. Try Do. (Like my Yoda reference there?) Suck at something new.

Buy the ticket.

Take the ride.*

*An extract from Hunter S. Thompson’s book, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (published in 1971). The full quote: “No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride…and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well…maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”

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