things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing

-pema chodron

On Wednesday I came home and started making dinner (So I wasn’t making a pie. But I will. One day. When I am done  applying for things).

Stuffed peppers, re-purposed leftovers to be precise. But they were going to be good.

I poured myself a glass of wine.

While I was “cooking”, my mom accidentally opened a piece of mail I’d overlooked. A bill. De-lovely!

A medical bill for my visit at an emergency care place (I’m one of the uninsured 47%) for my non-emergency allergic reaction to a spider bite. I paid for it on my credit card (like I’m paying for everything right now) and was told I “was all set” by the staff who had to ask me, three times and loudly “You are insured? At all?”.

They seem to have made an error, bureaucratic in nature. Another error, another phone call, another opportunity to feel impotent in the face of yet another scary, faceless institution.*

I started crying and saying words that should not be said around mothers. Or toaster ovens, for that matter.

That’s where I’m at right now. Dealing with one  more f#$%^*@#g bill, one more mistake to reconcile, makes me cry while making stuffed peppers for  my family on a Wednesday evening.

The deal is that I’m putting it all out there with project1979. I am applying for grants, participating in competitions, looking for sponsors because I believe that this generation is unique,  that it has something to valuable to say and I would like to allow others to feel the way I do (on fire/inspired) about all the people who are thriving in spite of/because of being born when we did. So far nothing has come in and of course I’m nervous, mainly about money but also because I’m worried if I’m doing it all wrong, doing too much or too little. Maybe I really naive and should step back and let someone else do this. Someone who is hipper and more savvy, less green and certainly knows more about #transmedia #tweeting #facebook #webseries #grant writing #product placement #beingcuteandsmartandgoodateverything than I do.

I don’t even think Wilson Phillips could get me out of this funk. But they can try…

This is one of the non-sexy sides of going for dreams.

It’s a roll of the dice and it takes courage, not the soundtracked courage that you see in movies with someone wearing a really cute outfit and looking fab with pursed lips while they “go for it”. Nope. It’s the courage that no one sees. It’s going to bed late, getting up early, going to networking events and feeling like your hair and aspirations are all wrong. It’s being the new kid, the weird kid, the kid who cries too easily (on  Wednesday evening over an incorrectly billed doctor’s visit).

My dad’s best friend Father Matthew Kelty said:

Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is get up and go to work every day.

Right now that’s what I am doing, Well, maybe not going to “work” but sitting in coffee shops working on grants/proposals every day until I leave my parents’ home in a few weeks. But dealing with *private student loans that won’t allow me to use my forbearance, an extra overcharged $1,000 charge on my credit card that I cannot seem to reconcile, my job still “promising to send the check” can get a gal down, yo.


Is this experiment an #epicfail or #epicwin? Still to be decided. Either way, at least I can say I went for it. A lot is riding on the next two weeks. If I am honest, I am scared. My embarrassingly fragile ego that wants things to work. For me and for all the people who believe in me and this project. I want to tell these stories. I believe in my generation and am so proud to be a part of it.

So, even if I cry or fail and most certainly make mistake after mistake…

I am certainly hopelessly/foolishly trusting things will work out. Feeling my way through the darkness isn’t exactly “pretty” but at least I’m doing it and with all of my heart.

And with a glass of wine.

(of course).

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