When The Honey Breaks.
I just bought honey.
Rather, I just invested in honey. Honey is justifiably expensive - I mean, it's a bargain considering how hard those many bees need to work to make it - but for this human, it's a purchase that requires consideration.
I'm planning to make granola today, because ours tastes better than the store's, and so I bought a small jar of honey, just enough for the recipe.
A few minutes ago, Osi and I were carrying ingredients into the house and I forgot I was holding precious golden cargo and moved too quickly and dropped the jar onto our gray concrete steps. There is glass everywhere. There is honey inside of many pairs of shoes.
I will clean it up later.
The dropping of the honey, in the moment it dropped, represented quite a lot. Namely, $7.59 + tax. But it also felt like an oozy representation of my inability to adequately manage things as effectively as I'd like right now.
I say "felt" because that feeling passed quickly and was replaced with a deep knowing that this was a momentary crisis, I did not need to fall into a pit of despair. Also, the Universe was not telling me that I'm inept - this was not the lesson I was meant to reap.
Instead, I asked my son for a hug and wiped a few loose tears from my eyes.
I sat him on the island and, for reasons that are a complete mystery to me, made that "bub-bub-bub" noise with his bottom lip - do you know the one I mean? - with my pointer finger and we both fell into a heap of laughter. I kept doing it and we both kept laughing, my joy mixed with a last few tears.
As often happens these days, this unexpected event has caused me to think about Where I'm Headed. I feel I'm at this place right now. It's not a place of aimlessness and wandering, but more a place of knowing I have things to do, women to meet, feelings to publicly feel, words to write - a place of realizing that, frankly, I want to stop thinking about ways to get you to pay me for stuff. The work I'm doing here - sharing my shit so you get to see that you're not the only one with shit - is my soul-work. And fuck if I'm going to work to convince you that something I have inside of me is somehow different than the things you have inside of you and that you simply must pay me to gain access to them.
I'm not an expert in anything other than transparency; my willingness to talk to you about my often-insecure, sometimes-aware, always-trying experience is what I have to offer. It's the thing that allows you to see me which, therefore, provides me with the honor of seeing you. And it doesn't feel good in my belly when I think of productizing and packaging and e-something-ing seeing you.
And I mean seeing you. Like, making you feel known. Making your own personal path-walk feel alive and possible. Bringing you to that place of "me, too", or whatever else you gain from coming here and reading. All I really want is for that to keep happening. And for the net to keep expanding.
And yet I need to make a real income because I'm tired of honey feeling like such a big decision. I'm tired of my husband missing every trip to the ocean because he has to work, because self-employment means taking days off very, very expensive.
I'm tired of the subtle desperation, you know? We're more than this. I know we are.
I'll have to find something else to sweeten our granola.
I think there's a bit of molasses in the pantry.