Maybe it's kicking off the month of May with a snowstorm that made this song just randomly pop into my head twenty years after I purchased (and completely wore out) this album. I bet I even started with the single, that's how much I loved Long December. Oh hot damn, it was my jam. (And also oh hot damn, I am getting old. Twenty years? Yikes.)
But I'm pretty sure it's not the snow. For the record, I'm as tired of that shit of the rest of my Colorado cohort. It's time for a little sun! But I'm not so unstable as to be reduced to tears by the weather. We do live in Colorado, guys. Snow is a thing.
So no...it probably wasn't the snow. It was probably this thing that happens to me sometimes when I've been out of my head for a bit. Maybe this happens to you too? I'm just floating along, not thinking thoughts because who has time for thoughts, and a collection of words just hits me--like a sucker punch to the gut. These words--they can be from a book or a poem or a bad TV show or a song--they just sneak in when I don't really know how I'm feeling or even if I'm feeling, and they say all the things.
Well you know how it is when you get a song stuck in your head. Especially when it's a twenty year old song, you have to download it and listen to it because you're not kidding yourself--those lyrics don't come as quick as they used to. So I set my life dial to 1996, pushed the repeat button, turned those Counting Crows up to eleven, and set to work straightening my hair. (You'd think after two decades, I could give up that ghost?)
And the Feeling that it's All a Lot of Oysters, But No Pearls
What's this, Counting Crows? A direct reference to the name of my blog? For those of you who don't know, Life as a Pearl is dedicated to my mom, who used to explain away all of my life's struggles by telling me that oysters turn irritating grains of sand into pearls. Neat.
Failing at all turns to have the long-suffering, charitable spirit she'd dreamed of for me, I finally broke her of that story by telling her I'd had quite enough sand, thank you, and I'd earned the life a pearl. I'm sure there was an F-word in there somewhere. It made us both laugh, and put into sharp perspective the uselessness of platitudes in the face of pain.
But when I heard that line in the song this morning, it didn't make me laugh at all. It hit me right in the stomach, so hard it made my eyes water. Because it's the truth. The truth I don't say to people when they ask me how I'm doing.
Because how do you tell people that you don't feel better? That even though you've made it through the surgery and the isolation and the diet and the month off meds and the radiation and all you have left is one more surgery and you're not quite bankrupt (yet), you actually don't feel better.
When you feel like the whole world is rooting for you to be strong and be well, it feels impossible to speak the truth, which is the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls. I don't feel better. I don't feel wiser. I don't feel inspired or grateful to be alive or any other thing that people deserve to have me feel because they've invested so much strength and grace and love in my journey. Most days I just feel...like a mouth full of sand.
I Can't Remember All the Times I Tried to Tell Myself
To Hold On to These Moments as They Pass
I know what you're thinking as you read this. You're arguing with me, like people do. You're saying to yourself: No! We don't deserve to have you tell us you're doing great if you're not doing great. We don't want you to feel like you have to lie. We want you to be honest! We're here for you!
But maybe if you're arguing, it's because you haven't lived this. You haven't had delicious meals delivered to your doorstep for weeks at a time. You haven't had someone do your grocery shopping for you or pick out the perfect book for you or send you the gift you desperately needed or meet you for coffee or hold your kid when you couldn't. You haven't had friends insist on making iodine-free treats for you, or parents who let you occupy their basement like a hand-wringing ghost for a whole week. Maybe you haven't gotten all the phone calls and texts and cards and emails--daily reminders that love is all around you.
You see, you can only argue if you don't know what it's like to desperately want to give someone your best because they've given you theirs. I want my people to know that I'm holding onto those moments, and that everything they've done for me matters.
If You Think that I Could Be Forgiven I Wish You Would
Maybe forgiven is a strong word for this situation; but how were the Crows to know? They couldn't have anticipated that in twenty years, I'd bastardize their song, making it the cancer ballad it was never meant to be. So maybe it's: if you think that you could give me a little more time, I wish you would. Or something like that.
Give me a little more time to do the getting better and the being better.
I used to tell myself (and my mom) I'd earned life as a pearl. I told myself I'd struggled enough--more than the people around me--and that I was so far down I could only go up! And maybe that was a little bit true, and maybe that was a little self-pity. It's admittedly a little hard to be objective when you've got sand stuck in your craw.
Thirty may not be that old, but it's old enough to understand that I may always be an oyster. Luckily, it's also old enough to finally pull my head out of the sand and realize I'm surrounded by pearls. And when you think about it that way, forgiven isn't too strong of a word at all. It's obviously taken me way to long to figure out that life as a pearl isn't about me, it's about you.
Maybe This Year Will be Better than the Last
And there it is. There's always reason to believe. And this year, I'm going to treat my life like a business that follows a fiscal year, rather than a calendar year.
I'm going to plan on my Long December being over on July 19th. Last year, Eric (and friends) threw me an amazing birthday party that unfortunately rang in what has been the crummiest year of my life. I suppose there's some kind of yin and yang principle I can apply to the idea that a person can only enjoy the world's best cake if one is about to get cancer.
So just in case there's anything to that, this July 19th we'll go small. Maybe one of those old Pitkin birthdays with pudding pie and a new set of Legos. Maybe we'll talk a little while about the year. And with any luck, maybe this year will be better than the last.
But I'm pretty sure it's not the snow. For the record, I'm as tired of that shit of the rest of my Colorado cohort. It's time for a little sun! But I'm not so unstable as to be reduced to tears by the weather. We do live in Colorado, guys. Snow is a thing.
So no...it probably wasn't the snow. It was probably this thing that happens to me sometimes when I've been out of my head for a bit. Maybe this happens to you too? I'm just floating along, not thinking thoughts because who has time for thoughts, and a collection of words just hits me--like a sucker punch to the gut. These words--they can be from a book or a poem or a bad TV show or a song--they just sneak in when I don't really know how I'm feeling or even if I'm feeling, and they say all the things.
Well you know how it is when you get a song stuck in your head. Especially when it's a twenty year old song, you have to download it and listen to it because you're not kidding yourself--those lyrics don't come as quick as they used to. So I set my life dial to 1996, pushed the repeat button, turned those Counting Crows up to eleven, and set to work straightening my hair. (You'd think after two decades, I could give up that ghost?)
And the Feeling that it's All a Lot of Oysters, But No Pearls
What's this, Counting Crows? A direct reference to the name of my blog? For those of you who don't know, Life as a Pearl is dedicated to my mom, who used to explain away all of my life's struggles by telling me that oysters turn irritating grains of sand into pearls. Neat.
Failing at all turns to have the long-suffering, charitable spirit she'd dreamed of for me, I finally broke her of that story by telling her I'd had quite enough sand, thank you, and I'd earned the life a pearl. I'm sure there was an F-word in there somewhere. It made us both laugh, and put into sharp perspective the uselessness of platitudes in the face of pain.
But when I heard that line in the song this morning, it didn't make me laugh at all. It hit me right in the stomach, so hard it made my eyes water. Because it's the truth. The truth I don't say to people when they ask me how I'm doing.
Because how do you tell people that you don't feel better? That even though you've made it through the surgery and the isolation and the diet and the month off meds and the radiation and all you have left is one more surgery and you're not quite bankrupt (yet), you actually don't feel better.
When you feel like the whole world is rooting for you to be strong and be well, it feels impossible to speak the truth, which is the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls. I don't feel better. I don't feel wiser. I don't feel inspired or grateful to be alive or any other thing that people deserve to have me feel because they've invested so much strength and grace and love in my journey. Most days I just feel...like a mouth full of sand.
I Can't Remember All the Times I Tried to Tell Myself
To Hold On to These Moments as They Pass
I know what you're thinking as you read this. You're arguing with me, like people do. You're saying to yourself: No! We don't deserve to have you tell us you're doing great if you're not doing great. We don't want you to feel like you have to lie. We want you to be honest! We're here for you!
But maybe if you're arguing, it's because you haven't lived this. You haven't had delicious meals delivered to your doorstep for weeks at a time. You haven't had someone do your grocery shopping for you or pick out the perfect book for you or send you the gift you desperately needed or meet you for coffee or hold your kid when you couldn't. You haven't had friends insist on making iodine-free treats for you, or parents who let you occupy their basement like a hand-wringing ghost for a whole week. Maybe you haven't gotten all the phone calls and texts and cards and emails--daily reminders that love is all around you.
You see, you can only argue if you don't know what it's like to desperately want to give someone your best because they've given you theirs. I want my people to know that I'm holding onto those moments, and that everything they've done for me matters.
If You Think that I Could Be Forgiven I Wish You Would
Maybe forgiven is a strong word for this situation; but how were the Crows to know? They couldn't have anticipated that in twenty years, I'd bastardize their song, making it the cancer ballad it was never meant to be. So maybe it's: if you think that you could give me a little more time, I wish you would. Or something like that.
Give me a little more time to do the getting better and the being better.
I used to tell myself (and my mom) I'd earned life as a pearl. I told myself I'd struggled enough--more than the people around me--and that I was so far down I could only go up! And maybe that was a little bit true, and maybe that was a little self-pity. It's admittedly a little hard to be objective when you've got sand stuck in your craw.
Thirty may not be that old, but it's old enough to understand that I may always be an oyster. Luckily, it's also old enough to finally pull my head out of the sand and realize I'm surrounded by pearls. And when you think about it that way, forgiven isn't too strong of a word at all. It's obviously taken me way to long to figure out that life as a pearl isn't about me, it's about you.
Maybe This Year Will be Better than the Last
And there it is. There's always reason to believe. And this year, I'm going to treat my life like a business that follows a fiscal year, rather than a calendar year.
I'm going to plan on my Long December being over on July 19th. Last year, Eric (and friends) threw me an amazing birthday party that unfortunately rang in what has been the crummiest year of my life. I suppose there's some kind of yin and yang principle I can apply to the idea that a person can only enjoy the world's best cake if one is about to get cancer.
So just in case there's anything to that, this July 19th we'll go small. Maybe one of those old Pitkin birthdays with pudding pie and a new set of Legos. Maybe we'll talk a little while about the year. And with any luck, maybe this year will be better than the last.
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