Reminding Myself That I Don’t Know Diddly Squat
This morning, I’m pretty sure I woke up smiling.
Not in the metaphorical way, either (“I woke up in a good mood and I’m going to capture that essence by saying, ‘I woke up smiling’”). I think that I actually woke up with a grin on my face.
The part that’s perhaps unusual is that this smile came from a stranger in a dream.
Who turned to me…
And asked…
“What’s your story about money?”
Goodness. I’m so wild.
I’m grinning right now just thinking about how odd my reaction is because, thankfully, Sam and I both delight in being weirdos.
And, if my understanding of society is right, most people don’t respond to being asked, “What’s your money story?” by becoming so happy that they WAKE THEMSELVES UP by grinning, and their first conscious thought is, “I’m so happy right now.”
But I do.
In the dream, my friend Erin and I were at a lunch, sitting with a stranger whom Erin had brought to the table. The stranger had made some sort of offhand comment in Erin’s general vicinity, which led to her asking, “Do you have this stuff figured out? The right-sized role of work? Really loving your career, but also having an equally fulfilling life outside of it?”
When he started to not only earnestly but also hilariously answer, Erin convinced him that he needed to come sit with us (I &%*#&# love dry, twisted, self-deprecating, “you really shouldn’t say this kind of stuff in public” humor. So. Much.).
And, after dream Erin and I laughed so hard that it hurt through this guy’s answer while also, mind you, gaining GEMS of wisdom about how he’s humaning, I was primed to respond well to, “And how about you? What’s your money story?”
Because, if you can’t tell from my habit of posting “and here’s what’s going on in my inner world today!” musings, I love this kind of stuff.
My family of origin, with its proclivity for sick and twisted humor
+ becoming an alcoholic by age 19 and the level of intimacy that drunks share
+ spending my twenties in recovery rooms, where the funniest people in the world hang out telling the truth about every single aspect of their lives
+ becoming a devotee of plant medicine retreats
Has, in many ways, ruined me.
I meet a lot of people who think that talking about real things means that you’re signing up for a heavy conversation, so they go through the world avoiding the kind of topics that are, frankly, the only things I want to talk about.
But I know, in my very bones, that talking about real things can be the lightest, most “oh my God, I’m definitely going to pee my pants,” “But really, how is this so funny?!” experience in the entire world.
Attend a good recovery meeting or ask my friend Rosemary to invite you over for one of her dinner party + Cards Against Humanity nights if you want proof. Or join me on one of the plant medicine excursions that I’ll hopefully organize in the next decade or so.
I know that I confuse a lot of people who I spend time with IRL by being very upfront about my distaste for chatting. Unless we’re drinking or doing drugs together (which post-rehab Keely doesn’t do very often…), I don’t really get a lot of joy from sitting around chatting. And 50+% of the dilemma isn’t even about the talking, it’s about the sitting. I spend enough time sitting, thank you very much.
So, before I get too rambly, I’m going to say that this is an area that I absolutely don’t have figured out. I love some conversations so much that I dream about them and wake up smiling. But I hate non-substance-fueled hours upon hours of sitting around chatting so much that I’ll go to extreme lengths to avoid it.
And, isn’t that nice? To muse myself into a place of, “whelp, turns out I have no conclusion because I know jack squat about this particular ‘how to human’ conundrum.”
Not knowing. What a liberating place to be.
Wishing you weird dreams and a fun level of confusion,
Keely
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