Life goals, failure and not-starting
Life goals, failure and not-starting
Today I was asked what failure means to me. Bam, talk about being hit by a car on a Monday morning.
Hi all,
Today I was asked what failure means to me. Bam, talk about being hit by a car on a Monday morning.
It came from a line of questioning about life goals, which I haven't properly done, ever. Sure, I've done SMART goals for work and sure I have a clear idea of my values and interests, but realistic goals to work towards for the year, less so. They never go so well because I get myself in a tiff. Goal-setting is something to be learned. So, I have been like Wordsworth, wandering (aimlessly) as a cloud. What a bastardisation of Romantic poetry. The cloud's been roughly going in the right direction, because I do not deny that I have been steering it, but maybe it's time to properly claim the west wind for myself. Imagine the unstoppable power!!
Thing is, I have claimed the west wind before, but it's been catalysed by intense spurts of guilt and shame. Expecting excellence as the baseline feels horrible long-term, it alienates you from celebrating the success you achieve. Very Protestant, very English. I'm unlearning that energy generation, but now there is less wind in my sails. With it, the boat (me) has settled, pausing for an extended period to recover from the battering. But another journey I hope is afoot. One that is full of light and excitement. I would like to use a fairy wand, complete with star, streamers, beads, sequins (think Felicity Wishes, abso-bloodly-loutley), to cast a spell on a fragrant breeze that whisks me off to celebrating how wonderful really living can be. Isn’t that quaint.
So what is holding back a trip to Toys R Us for said magical item?
Well, as a recovering people pleaser, on the surface I have a sneaking suspicion that the approval of others has something to do with it. Of putting what is precious to me out on a platter, and being devastated when people say they don't like the spread. It's all a bit dramatic, really. The world will not end if someone doesn't want to publish my writing. Culturally we enmesh embarrassment with failure. We tell ourselves we should feel ashamed, internalise mediocrity or subjective taste as rejection. We feel humiliated, small. But here's the catch, friends, we end up feeling small if we don't go after what really energises us anyway.
But it's more than that. Alongside the jammy layers of shame in this feeling trifle, at the bottom I suspect there is a sponge that is afraid I may have to give up that career dream, and replace it with something I enjoy less. That sounds soul-sucking, and like all of us I am not really set up for this capitalism living-to-work situation when what I love often isn't compatible with financial sustainability. There's a barbed edge of not starting = not failing. So here I am writing about not starting as a means to start.
I'm currently crafting an essay on dissatisfaction, looking at the work of Hélène Cixous in relation to my own life. She talks about women needing to write themselves into existence. Over the past few months I've been picking apart why speaking my truth is so difficult. I've worked through the numbness and utter rage that comes with gendered silencing, the attempts to shrink yourself to remain palatable. I'm now feeling the uncomfortable growing pains of expanding out again. Owning what I desire. So many of the women I admire credit the process of relinquishing their fear of failure, desire to control, and shame of what they want as the very key to their own success. Creativity does not thrive in environments where you dig your nails in for risk of falling off the edge.
So true failure to me is living a life governed by fear, full of chances you never risked taking. Being scared and letting it slip through your fingers until it's gone before you knew it. Controlling yourself away from love, pleasure and affection. Success is being brave enough to know you deserve what you want, articulate it, and actively pursue it, all from a place of compassion rather than fear and shame. My pursuit is to fail myself less everyday, be brave, make some messy mistakes.
I end this week's entry with a bucket full of space for all us sensitive folks. We're told we must be hard to be resilient, or abrasive to be assertive, or loud to be heard. We're taught to take on masculine qualities and be combative as a means to get ahead and succeed. We're taught to set aside ourselves to scrap for survival. Nope, I don't fancy it. The sensitive kid in me needs a lot of care. What happens when we embrace our softness too? A longer life and much fewer nervous toilet trips, I think.
In the spirit of the above, next week I think I'm gonna write on something tangible.
Take care,
Eden
Writing for the week
This week I am digging into the vaults and sharing my writing on change in the pandemic. I was very frustrated at the time of writing this, deep in the job search, living at home with my parents, reeling over the stagnancy. There is a whole load of angst in the writing and I kinda love it. I talk about Freud and the uncanny which was really fun to piece together - more mind-bending, please!
Balm for the week
I dip in and out of Talk Art's podcast whenever I am in the mood for learning. I think this kind of listening may have to be reserved for work day commutes to avoid my brain whirring onto marketing ideas or brand positioning when I'm doing the laundry. No one wants that.
I really enjoyed their episode with Skinder Hundal, the new Director of Arts for the British Council, who promote British artists abroad, facilitate artistic exchange and use culture as a means to strengthen international relations. Skinder talks a fair amount about working with local communities and challenging bureaucracy in institutions. Much to be said here, definitely in another newsletter.