Emulsion propulsion

“Tightly bundled neuroses kept marginally in check by a slight grasp of reality.” If I had only one sentence to describe myself to eternity, that would be it. I don’t take it lightly, really. As contrary as I am, I also recognize the full weight of those words. That might not be the one sentence my dear readers would choose to describe me, but that’s the one I feel. To the outside world (but not the world wide web, of course), I seem like a pretty together babe. On the inside, I feel churny.

Sometimes churny is good. Sometimes churny is powerful and motivating and brings about change. Sometimes, though, churny makes my brain all twisty-straw and my thoughts are goopy fluid being twirled in spirally circles.

The churny’s been pretty out there lately, as readers know (but not my co-workers or my fake friends or … who else is there?). I’ve been taking great care to change the churny things about my life that I can control. I’m looking for a new job, for starters, which answers a bunch of churny yearnings like depressed pay and depressing work, and I’m looking for local friends. I found a new psychiatrist (yay crazy pills!), and I’m on track to find a new therapist, so the things that I can master I am trying to master.

Except the creation churn.

I don’t believe that one day I hatched and discovered that it was of critical importance to me to be an expert at something before I even tried it, but I do know that I woke up one day and realized that’s how I was acting. I don’t want to start anything new just in case I’m not awesome at it. I don’t want to walk into a room and not already be the most advanced science club member present. I don’t want to crawl and then walk and then run—I want to hit the ground a well-honed Olympic sprinter. I want to walk into fiction writing class and be Margaret Atwood. I want to walk into the stable and be Annie Oakley.

I’m taking a free photography class for fun. Let’s insert “fun” in air quotes here. I was having a great time on the first few weeks when we talked about theory and “this is how a lens works,” lording it over my pathetic air-quote “peers.” “Fun” ended Monday. For the first time Monday, I saw my classmates’ actual photographs. Damn, they’re really freakin good. Like amazingly light-years ahead of where I am in compositional skill. I went from being the girl whose hand was always up first in class to the girl who was like “How do I do this lasso thing on Photoshop again?” I went from teacher’s darling to girl-who-ties-up-the-color-printer-with-her-sophomoric-attempts-at-photography.

Doesn’t sound “fun,” does it? See? That’s the churny. Why can’t I look at their work and say, “Wow, that’s really inspirational that they’re just students too and were able to accomplish so much”? Why can’t I take that inspiration as a challenge to try harder, to push myself to achieve at their level?

I can’t wrap my mind around it. My intellect says, “You’re being foolish. Get out there and shoot; it’s the only actual way to improve,” but my lower intestinal tract says, “God you’re arrogant and naïve to walk in and assume that you are holier than anyone in your presence. Since you'll never be good enough, you should quit now.”

I try to channel Camus in these moments: “Imagine Sisyphus happy.” Can I? The first time I heard that quote, my heart swelled with understanding the thing Camus wanted to tell me, but I’ve never been able to hammer it inside me properly. Can I be Sisyphean-ly happy? Can the quest gratify me? Or do I need to have the boulder at the top of the hill before I’ll even condescend to be pleased?

My superior behavior is condescending to others. I let myself down when I descend into condescension. And I descend a slope of scree when I expect myself to master the tightrope blindfolded without ever trying a harness.

Crawl; be new. Be Camus’ Sisyphus. Be contented with learning. And making mistakes. Obviously, this bundle of neuroses will never be perfect, so un-churn a bit, let loose, and, hey, have fun. Make your one sentence "Imagine Christine Wy happy."