“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

~ Samuel Beckett

What started as a summer hiatus now seems to have turned into an autumnal hermitage, which I don’t yet know whether I’ll manage to shake for the winter—or not. Meaning, I have spent several months rearranging the literal—as well as figurative—furniture of both my home & heart. In truth, I’ve been sleeping far too much, & gotten nearly nothing one might call “productive” done… But this has come with rich rewards! I’ve reconnected with myself, with a few dearly missed friends of bygone eras, & have even made a few new connections. It’s been years since I chose to prioritize relationships, & it’s truly gratifying to rediscover skills for making others—especially children & teenagers—feel both safe & seen… It has also been rather gratifying to realize that I finally feel both safe & seen. I know I’ll be unwrapping the gifts this year has dropped into my lap for many seasons to come. Yet I want to reflect on one feeling in particular in this post, as well as share the work of art (a collage) which I feel most proud of creating to date… 🕊️

Photo of my entry for the “Breaking In” exhibit at a local gallery

Sometimes we fail… We fail to find the words—to comfort a grieving friend, or to describe an aching feeling. We can fail to protect the ones we love from coming to harm—or worse, we can turn out to be what harms them most. But hardest, & perhaps most frequently of all—we fail ourselves all of the time… What matters most is what happens next. The steps we take here will be the shakiest, & feel like the most difficult—but they determine the core essence of our very being… Particularly in the sense of our being in communion with others. Among my chiefest faults—I would readily list the direct admission, & the full acceptance of my many shortcomings. In short, I don’t particularly relish being confronted about where I’m currently dropping the ball… Since (chances are) I already know, & have been hyper-fixating on it—but thank you!

The title I gave my piece is a play on the expression “pass the peas”

Sure, few among us could admit to ever feeling truly eager to admit defeat. In ancient Greece, they tried to teach through spectacle & theater that hubris is often the downfall of man. After that, the Book of Genesis tried to convince us the woman was responsible… But we’ll digress someday. To err is human, after all, & our imperfections certainly do play a large part in what separates us from the divine. I have to wonder, in that case, what thin device separates us from the demonic? I shudder to think that only prayer has that power, but that is what I was taught as a child. It’s little wonder I’m often spiraling into dark philosophical doubts… Forgive me, dear (few remaining) readers—if I stumble drunkenly down streets of superstition, fall into foxholes of absolute nonsense, or disappear behind a burning bush to relive myself for a moment.

The collage was accepted & displayed—titled “Pass the Peace”

The difficult truth I most hate to admit is that I’ve failed at so many different things—so many times—that I’ve had to learn to make it into a little game I’ll play with myself… One in which nobody really keeps a score, the points don’t make sense or matter, & the only way I can possibly lose is by not laughing at myself along the way. Essentially, I got so used to failure that I had to learn to have fun with it—even if it rarely felt enjoyable. The one who I have to credit for equipping me with such a necessary life skill would have to be my father… But I wouldn’t feel this gratitude or so generously towards him until tragically recently—as we each underwent individual evaluations for a late diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder. Time has smoothed our roughest edges out, yet it was a long road of stumbling (& of often bumping into each other) to get here.

I chose this frame to make it appear as though it were floating

I see it in so many students I’ve worked with… Ones who become the class clown (like my father did) to cope with the frustration of falling ever further behind their peers—especially emotionally/developmentally—due to a lack of complete diagnosis or unpicked up on learning disability. Others who become artists (like I did) & withdraw socially—seeking attention only on the page or stage aka where it's deemed appropriate to do so. But then I burned out… As anyone using art as their biggest tool to cope who then attempts to make a living off said art most likely will (without other supports in place). I hate to say it, dear readers, but I wonder whether some of us are simply set up for failure from the start… In a society that shames our children until they give up clapping, dancing, drawing, drumming, painting, singing—or expressing joy.

I was so delighted to see it displayed among so much lovely art

If I could go back & say anything to my younger self (& if I could be certain that I’d actually listen), I would try to convince a far more energetic but less experienced me to try to be less afraid of failure from the start. To think—how frequently that fear gripped & ultimately paralyzed me until I lost almost every joyful expression I knew (besides poetry… Until the day I lost that, too.) Only to discover halfway through this life that it was in that holy & fertile ground of my greatest failures which I was able to grow, & to prune myself of sorrow. That pushing past failure is where I found satisfaction or any personal success—as though it were failure itself which fertilized the fruit & flowers. It may be an overly simplistic & all too perfumed approach—but as I once called myself a poet, I’ve been known to take those from time to time. (Another fault, I guess!)

I feel encouraged to keep experimenting with mixed-media arts

My father is one of those rare people who never stopped expressing joy. He didn’t let the world dictate how he should live his life, overcame obstacles I couldn’t possibly fathom experiencing, & has never really stopped evolving. His laughter is infectious, & he is constantly cracking himself up with his own jokes. I’m convinced that he & I were a pair of circus clowns in another life—much to the endless dismay of my exceedingly patient mother. But he taught me the lessons I’ve been most grateful for, as of late: How to laugh at myself. How to get back up regardless of how often I fall due to my own clumsiness, or am knocked back down by circumstances. How to bring out the best in others by being their biggest fan. How to survive hardship, & maintain that sparkle in the eyes . I know he won’t read this—but I’m glad he’s still around.

~ fin ~

p.s. He’s still alive, he’s just not a big reader! But don’t worry guys, I’ll probably read it to him & he’ll probably just shrug his shoulders & quote some movie I’ve never even heard of then we’ll both go down parallel rabbit holes of absurd jokes.