How to break up with perfect & embrace your inner hot mess
some would call that, being human
They say beauty is determined by symmetry, and that symmetry is pleasing to the human (e)y(e)
I don’t doubt it. I understand the math.
Lately however, I’ve been captivated by the (a) typical.
The asymmetrical.
Struck, by contrast.
i m b a l ance ,
things slightly askew.
does that mean I’m embracing the mess? YES.
I’ve been letting my room be oh so messy lately, now that I’ve finally landed in one of my own after months of bag lady-ing it up and down the west coast.
And I gotta tell you, moms who consider a clean room to be one where everythng is in its right place? who keep theirs homes neat as a pin?
they are missing OUT.
Virgos? missing out.
mess is a certain kind of FREEDOM.
I get tidying up, I do. I love the feeling of putting it all back together, folding shirts crisply, arranging everything just….so.
I wont let things get dirty, and sometimes the mess can lead to stress.
but a messy room, when timed right? It’s the best.
Asymmetry abounds! There is logic to the chaos, a map of sorts tracking my every move.
There’s expression! and play! and reckless abandon!
I appreciate the way movement is implied in the leaning of my eye, by the way you have to cock your head and squint to see what’s far and how it compares to what’s near.
Right here. Who knows!
I do.
Fun fact: my brain does much better in this kind of weather, the kind that leaves a room looking like a hurricane just moved through. It’s much more native to me, this state of things, this irregularity…
I like watching my morning cream swirl in the rich mahogany of my coffee, adore the gaping holes in my bread left by the yawning yeast during the infamous rise.
I’m sharing space with a cat again, she’s got a crooked tail. She keeps her balance differently than most when she walks, and I adore it.
I’m seeing more men on the dating apps rocking the single earring, a cross danlging at the end of a chain, glinting in the camera’s glare caught in the crosshairs, between ray and lens.
Somehow they’re all pulling it off.
My right ankle is sprained, I rolled it stepping hot off the dance floor in May, and into The Gran Artique where I held an antique pistol to my thigh and smiled. The injury is a familiar one, my lax ligaments know no bounds…literally.
The sprain has been a steady reminder that trusting your body is a practice, not something to take for granted but something that grants you access, and I’m trying to steady myself all the way! down to the bone.
My ankle shouts out “find your core!”
Not just the stellar six pack abs that exist as an idea inside my head but the central, molten warm marrow of my structure, the part that’s real, tangible,
“and move from that place.”
Sturdy. Steady. Dignified.
I’ll get into the story of the twisted ankle next week…it’s deserving of it’s own newsletter. It comes with a valuable lesson learned, more so, a skill set flexed when the “mythical potential collides with the oh so totally unavailable reality” of the spiritual f8ck boy. Stay tuned.
Even there, the asymmetry was something I could not take my eyes off. The degree to which I revealed myself, remained clear, and direct, and he was well, fumbling, confused, and split.
Like Picasso’s rendering of a woman, his painting so clearly an abstraction of the more often than not, symmetrical human face. One of us was everywhere the eye could see, the other half remained unaccounted for, disappearing into parts unknown.
This past week I went to the woods, camped just outside of Yosemite at Alpine Lake and began evening out all the social time with some much needed solitude.
DAMN did mamma nature do me right. When does she not?
Some quiet.
Some depth.
Boy was I met.
I dropped in on the tail end with a cohort of women, with whom I’m studying Women Who Run With the Wolves by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés.
Something came thru, well, a f8ck ton has been coming thru…dreams of predatory energy, figures and contexts. Reminders, warnings, proof.
That there is that life sucking, soul bleeding presence, out there. Do you know it?
I feel inclined to tell you, you do. But that’s also, for another newsletter.
A future you.
This book is no joke, especially when read with the right guidance. Just make sure you dance it into your bones, and metabolize the energy it arouses.
I’m finding my way, with tenacity. Dexterity. Nimbly.
This Teeny Tremor I’m doing things a bit differently, this is where my writing stops, some visual elements pop up, and you get a 13 minute imperfectly perfect voice recording of the latest insight that’s joggin’ this gals ole noggin’.
I’m tired of the pressure to be perfect I feel when I sit down to
write
write
write
and
type
type
type
and this week’s edition is the perfect opportunity to say f8ck perfection and try something new.
So I’m freeing myself of that pressure, and will be working more fluidly with form as this one extends into the next…and on and on we’ll go.
I hope you enjoy xx
playing with taking things apart
The audio
I recorded while walking the loop at my campsite. My headphones were being finnicky. I don’t reeeeeeeally care, the message is there.
The Blessings of Imperfection
“The universe is made of stories, not of atoms”
— The Speed of Darkness by MURIEL RUKEYSER
listening to them speak as they dance across the page
As always, thanks for being here y’all.
Sending you the sweetest fruits and softest night falls this summer season.
We’ve officially turned over into the second half, where Yin begins to find her way back to us and take back the days.
xx
Z