I stopped writing in 2020, but I’m hoping for better in 2021. I’m not expecting any magic, but I’ve heard hope springs eternal.
Writing’s always been my clarifier. My brain’s best hope for translation. It sweeps away the anxious swirl which Lord only knows didn’t calm itself this year. It was lazy to stop writing, and I felt guilty about stopping, but stop I did.
But (honestly, candidly, truthfully, if you want the whole story, don’t twist my arm about it), I didn’t stop entirely. I did write when things got really weird, but the thoughts were too personal to share. Writing became the last resort life raft in the weirdest moments, but I wasn’t able to express the usual pithy wit I like to think I can muster every once in a while. Everything I wrote was just a bit heavy. Uncomfortably so. And with all of that – not in spite of but because of – it was necessary. And as it would turn out the non-heavy, tepid thoughts didn’t feel necessary this year. They felt self-indulgent, and so I found myself wondering if they were profound at all. Profound enough to record, to share. So that’s probably the actual reason why I stopped.
Quick pivot.
I was on Instagram and this girl posted on her story about her friend’s Jordan year. “Oh nice,” I thought to myself, because supposedly, culturally, that’s really supposed to mean something. And then it struck me, that as I’ve been consumed with the bad (the heavy, piping hot, far too profound thoughts) and so little of the good that it’s been my so-called Jordan year for the past ten months. And it hasn’t been all that “nice”. There were moments of “nice”, even moments of “joy” and “bliss”, but “nice” and none of its synonyms are the words I’d choose as the theme of the year. Had I missed out on what (whatever “what” is) was supposed to happen? Am I confused about what 23 is, or is Michael Jordan?
This has been a long, hard year of clarifying it all. Who I am, want to be, and am decidedly not. What lets my soul breathe and what suffocates it. What I want for myself and what I was told to want. Who a real friend is and who is not. I learned that last one in 6th grade but have been relearning it this year too (18th grade; the lesson keeps presenting itself until it’s learned). My life raft writing moments were filled with those clarifications.
So this Jordan year – in all its supposed glory – has not been that glorious. I have not felt like Michael Jordan for one single moment. I’ve been re-learning middle school lessons and ignoring tepid thoughts even though they offered some relief. It’s been heavy and hard. I feel heavy but too soft in some places. Learning to accept that too.
And now here we are in 2021. That signals two more months of this misdefined Jordan year of mine and I think it may be time to embrace its intended cultural definition. Foolery, spontaneity, a little bit of (sustained) joy? I think that’s what it stands for, but I’ve been too busy clarifying what I stand for, and what keeps me standing even after that. The hardness and sharp edges of this year made me think those things couldn’t be a part of the story. But didn’t I know they’re what give the story its depth?
So, no resolutions, just the promise of a glorious two months, that’ll feed into a glorious ten more. Glorious regardless, glorious because I said so, glorious because this has been heavy and hard as hell and I’d like to enjoy my life, please. Surely that’s what Michael Jordan wanted for us all, even me. To acknowledge and record and celebrate non-heavy thoughts as the joyful, profound stuff of life. Glorious through and through. Glorious to stay, regardless of how glorious looks. Glorious moments that make up glorious life.