42

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the hopeful/hopeless binary I often find myself in,” I said to my best friend. “But I can’t figure out what lies beyond those two options.” 

“Like, medium-rare hope?” she said, and I cackled. 

So many times over the last year, I’ve found myself unable to imagine a future outside of the confines of my present. I wind up crouched in my hallway under a halo of twinkly lights, whismpering (that’s something between a whisper and a whimper) I don’t see a path forward, feeling trapped not just in the here and now of circumstance, but the here and now of my mind. 

Just as often, I’ve found myself unable to imagine a future outside of the confines of a desired outcome. I cross my fingers and am buoyed by the idea that if just this happens, I’ll be good. Which is a trap of another sort, one that overlooks what is, dives deep into magical thinking, relies on outside circumstance, and implies there’s only one right path to “good.” 

And yet, despite all the anxiety this hope-binary produces, time does indeed move forward. Unimaginable futures unfold, bringing with them things I never could have seen coming. A seal popping her little head up just as I’m about to try and catch a wave. Intergenerational friendships formed in deep water pools, on karaoke stages, and in mansions full of cat-ears and monster masks. Friendships lost. Farm tours on Vancouver Island during a medical leave of absence. High-fiving ferns. Delightful and comforting text exchanges. Boundaries. Practicing clear communication, being true to myself, and muddling through the unknown. Trekking the sand dunes of Oregon and the redwoods of Mendocino. A latent penchant for bubble baths. Breakfast tacos with Frank. Fears, realized. Fears, overcome. One hell of an acupuncturist. Tami and Sharon’s on-point humor-infused wisdom infused. Alison’s joyful rationality and inspiring mindset. Simone’s everything. Walks, runs, hikes, snuggles, licks, adventures and laughter with Maizie. Missteps. Moments I’m not proud of. Metallic boots. Hours of audiobooks. Endless laughter. Merging timelines. Love. 

Woven within all this is the continued work around my internal world. Catching omnipresent negative self-talk (and the ruminations and narratives that spark it) and trying to change my neural pathways. Grounding myself within my inner-spaciousness (which for me is an endless river of blue fire) that can hold every feeling that exists within me no matter how much. Choosing peace over people-pleasing. Navigating my own patterns and attachment issues. Living the serenity prayer (aside: my friend Aaron brilliantly rewrote the prayer to focus on what’s within my control and the rest of it can all just fuck right off). Giving myself grace. Offering myself compassion. 

You know, the stuff that is simple, but not easy.

Which is all to say, I think the antidote to hope (both the -ful and -less varieties) is leaning into possibility—aka #mediumrarehope. Trying to make sense of what is essentially nonsense and the motivations of others doesn’t help me be able to experience the wonders of bathroom dance parties. Attaching to an outcome won’t bring me any closer to running around outside in the rain. Might as well, as Alison says, take the tangent train to whateverthefuck. Nothing is permanent. Not me, not you, not this moment. 

I don’t know what is going to happen this year, but I do know that anything could.

For reference: 41, 40, 39, 38, 37, 36, 35, 34, 33, 32, 31, and 30. 

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