Generosity. A crisis and reclamation.

An experiment in NOT selling sh*t

This is part of a monthly feature called Share & Tell.

I share about people’s work, namely, folks playing in their genius zones.

Then I dig into what I’m wrestling with and working on. Today is that day!

But I’ve been in ANOTHER WORLD. So shares of other’s genius are forthcoming. Here’s the update from the inside, which true to the title of this newsletter, and my show, has been A Little Bit Much!

Image: The promotional graphic for my solo show: A Little Bit Much. An image of me with carrots stuffed and spilling out of my mouth surrounded by cartoon graphics depicting the theme of the show and a title made of magazine clippings. ^[c]

I may be in a teensy weensy crisis. Or a sweet reclamation.

A few weeks ago, I looked ahead at the plans, the launches, the shizzle I planned to sell and said to myself, time to get movin' on all the things!

Except…I don’t feel like it.

Like skin-burning allergy don’t feel like it.

Like, want to just give everything away don’t feel like it.

Like, circle up the people and say oh my goodness isn’t being here just way too much? What do you need? How can I help? Move into my house, take my shirt, snuggle in my bed, cry yourself to sleep, honey bear I’ve got you.

In a few days, I’ll be doing the debut of my one-woman show: A Little Bit Much

I’ve been reciting my lines to the trees. Perched at lookouts, hollering my favourite monologues into the wild ocean. Getting nothing done while sucked into the world of these lines. The show arcs through time. Circling the same stories over and over, I memorize the words, the pauses, the inflection, the feelings.

It’s a meditation. The ride is intense. Revisiting. Revisiting. Instead of the repetition becoming rote, it’s waking up cells that hold memories. Craft components I play with are “misdirects”. Along those lines, at times I bring forth heavy or awful themes and wrap them with poetics and punchlines. It’s an emotional ride for the audience. And for me.

When I wrote the very short monologue about disordered eating in my teens, it didn’t feel heavy at all. It was so long ago. I’ve done so much work to love and accept my body, to free myself, I don’t feel hooked or triggered.

What’s happened in this repetition, in the cultural critiquing woven through my stories is an experience of moving from being the subject to being the compassionate elder. I’m looking back on my young self and thinking damn, girl, you didn’t stand a chance! Every day in every way, from every direction, society has been demanding you hate your body. Then selling you salves for your shame and flaws.

AND YOU GUYS!!!! I’m white! I’m able-bodied! I’m only a little bit fat! I’m pretty enough to get by on my personality! I’m like, extremely privileged when it comes to how I present. I refuse to hate my body. I fucking refuse. I’ve worked so, so, so hard at that refusal.  

Reciting these lines over and over, I’m feeling the deep cruelty, the impossible game. Not just about our bodies, but about the “all” we’re supposed to be pursuing. The goodness we’re supposed to be. The shit we’re supposed to have together. The men we’re supposed to be attractive enough to be recused by. The infallible mothers we’re supposed to be. The aging we have to dodge. The generous, evolved, world-changing, system-dismantling, collectively liberating geniuses we need to be. Productive and rested. Beautiful and affluent. Powerful and yielding. Conscious and socially and politically radical. All while being sold to and sold to and sold to and sold to and sold to and sold to and sold to and sold to and sold to.

I’m getting Instagram ads saying I’m falling behind if I’m not making EIGHT TO NINE FIGURES WHAT THE ACTUAL –––!? 

Without knowing it, writing this show has been a way of excavating and healing the threads that have woven the identities I’ve carried. Some heavy, others enthusiastically wonderful. The stories I’ve told myself about who I am and how the world is. The stories our culture sells about who we are and who we should be. A reckoning and coming into intimate contact with who I am now, where I am now and what I want to contribute to the collective conversation.

I’m middle-aged. My night sweats flow with grief and rage. My days are filled with joy and blessings.

And so while I could be and maybe should be being strategic and responsible and planning a launch or some shit, I can’t stop thinking about a generosity experiment I want to try.

I’ve been playing the game of following where I’m called with unreasonable faith.

It’s wildly impractical. It reminds me of the way I moved in my 20s when I had very little overhead and a whole life stretched out in front of me. I was a bit of a flake, sometimes a hot mess, but damn, it was fun and synchronistic and in the end, I gave my heart unabashedly and my needs were always met somehow.

Now I have things like dependants and bi-weekly mortgage payments and an identity that tells me I need to be strategic and practical and reliable but that’s so heavy and boring my skin wants to burn off.

You know what I want, what I really really want?

To gather people. To dig deeply into what everyone needs to thrive and then go balls to the wall to make that happen for each other. Or labia to the pavement or whatever will make that expression feminist. OH! Tits to the tarmac! That’s what my teacher used to say.

Here’s what feels ripe and alive in the field. By “in the field”, I mean the overarching themes and feelings in the social, professional and creative relationships I’m touching.

People are weary and heartbroken and angry and overwhelmed and cannot believe the horrific state of the world. They’re also unreasonably optimistic and committed and earnestly seeking pleasure and beauty and want to do right by the Earth and humanity even though humanity is the suckiest of all sucky problems.

They’re generous, bright and trying not to grind so hard. They want to make the best use of their privilege and blessings while stretching limited resources, sometimes overgiving, and feeling guilt that time, money or energy feel scarce when they have much and others suffer more. They could really use some nourishment and help but struggle to ask for it, are running out of runway to pay for it, don’t know where to turn for it or have wounded, prideful or dodgy relationships with receiving.

They have a bounty of gifts and talents but are siloed or lonely in their efforts, while Life right hooks them on repeat. They care about resilient community. Are trying to make and maintain meaningful connections around the internet which is increasingly hostile and like trying to stay upright while pushing through an obstacle race, getting pummelled by outrage, ads and soothing distractions that anesthetize their grief.

Enter…THE GENEROSITY EXPERIMENT

We’ll circle up for a not-yet-determined amount of time. Maybe a month or a moon cycle. We’ll find our truest expression of generosity, our sweetest give, not our over-give or fearful withholding. We’ll excavate our needs– the practical, emotional, relational, liberatory. We’ll network and co-work. We’ll move resources around, and make connections. We’ll gather, we’ll share, we’ll champion and advocate. We’ll be generous in our giving and courageous in our receiving.

The experiment is free. It’ll cost you a little bit of time, some courage and dedication. We’ll study what happens in our lives.

More details to come, but I want to take a pulse…Are you interested in the spirit of this? 

Will you comment on this post or reply to this email and let me know if you feel a pull and what resonates with you? And maybe, if you’re a people gatherer, would you consider running an experiment with your own local community once we’re underway?