🌝 Unfiltered Musings

Letter 186

Confession time: I have no idea what to share each week. I’ve been at this weekly project for 186 weeks. I don’t want to optimize it. It’s more playful with spontaneity and surprise. What weirdos plan out their playdates weeks in advance anyway?

So, this week, I permitted myself to write something that didn’t need to be useful, which ironically became useful.

I joined my Monday morning writing group on Zoom. Usually, I have an intention of what to write about, but this week I had none. I felt like typing up a free-write like I was journaling because usually, when I journal by hand, I have no idea what to write either, so here we go!

First, I got grounded in the present with my senses. I sat on my couch chair on my lanai. Laptop on my lap on top of a pillow. An ant is crawling on my left big toe. I heard the breeze go by, rustling the eucalyptus leaves. I heard technology – my neighbor on a speakerphone and a leaf blower.

Spotify opened to put on my “writing flow” playlist. River Flows Into You by Yiruma is about to be my most-played song on Spotify yet again this year. How practical. Somedays, I miss when it was White Iverson by Post Malone from all the pregames I threw. I sniffed my mint cacao tea woven in my fingers. It is cold, but I’ll drink it anyway. My feet were icicles. This is unique for Hawaii standards. It smells fresh out. I am inhaling moist air. Yes, I used the word moist because that is the most descriptive of this experience. I am setting aside the judgment of any connotations.

So hmm, what to share about in this week’s letter? Let’s get back to it.

I could’ve shared that story about being courageous in Korea, but I’ve got a laundry list of why not to. Here goes. Let me reveal my smelly socks to you…

The story feels too raw to share on the Internet, like a scab that isn’t scarred yet. It isn’t quite ready to come out of the crockpot just yet. My attempt at having a content calendar is a weekly flop, like the first flip of a pancake that always falls flat.

And besides, when it comes to sharing my experiences about my life, I’ll never know beforehand what is exciting me. I don’t want to bore anyone to death, as Mrs. Norris did with her AP US History essays that I flunked as a 15-year-old. That’s no fun. What would be the point of that? Why pull teeth if there aren’t cavities?

I constantly question myself how much of my identity I truly want to expose to you folks on the Internet. I used to be that girl in college who Snapchatted everything. The definition of a super-sharer. *Let’s show the world I just walked to the United Dairy Farms gas station to buy a mint chocolate milkshake. My life is beyond fascinating.* Currently cringing with a triple chin. Taylor Swift said in her commencement speech cringing is cool, so ¯\(ツ)/¯

In my pursuit of doing courageous things this year, I’ve pondered the amount of self-preservation I need in my online presence to stay sane.  Writing online is such a bizarre experience. It feels like everyone knows everything, but what is everything? And who cares that much? Am I taking myself too seriously? What here actually matters?? My existence will fade into oblivion eventually, anyway.

In the grand scheme of the Internet, these letters are like a spec of stardust in space that very few take the time to dust off a telescope out to gander at.

Back to what I was supposed to write about and another excuse. I don’t want to open that Google Doc I wrote two weeks ago on Korea. It doesn’t excite me right now, and Gosh DANGIT, I feel like writing something exciting and new!

Sometimes, I fear that I’m addicted to novelty. Is that even a real thing? I guess so. I saw

Nat Eliason

shared this about being a “recovering neophiliac.” Ditto friend. It’s especially relevant when I travel. Or when Starbucks comes out with its holiday drinks, they are full of sugar I don’t need but are alluring. Going back into that old draft means going into editing mode, and I’m not in the mood to make judgment calls.

BUT is not every thought I type onto this document in this letter now a judgment call? And won’t I need to polish this before publishing it to Substack? (yes, I did edit this a little bit). Ah, the irony. How glorious.

Like the judgment calls of word choice, I struggle when too many things coexist simultaneously. Life makes more logical sense when it is either this or that. Black or white. My first therapist told me my tendency to think like that wasn’t serving my mental health. Seeing the world in polarized neat little boxes of dichotomies is not reality.

You know what else isn’t a reality? The personas of men on their dating profiles and how they somehow hide that they live on a military base and leave in a week.

I deleted the dating app Hinge last month because I despised how enjoyable it felt as a swiping game and how judgmental it made me feel. Also, one of my first dates shamed me for having Hinge while not having other social media. No second date for Dakota. He recited Road Less Traveled by Robert Frost. Not gonna lie, that was attractive. Memorizing my favorite writing is something I want to be able to do someday. Man in the Arena by Teddy Roosevelt is at the top of that list.

I had a breakthrough last week. I remembered the promise I made to myself five years ago that I’d write every day for the rest of my life. The decision fatigue for me each week in these Letters from a Learn-it-all is more about what I want to share.

How the heck did I decide to share this this week? Dunno. I felt like it and thought it’d be fun, and that’s reason enough. Most of the rules I have in my walnut are made up anyway.

This mind of mine never shuts off.

It is a constant pouring of ideas like Niagara Falls in Canada that my European relatives are obsessed with. All these thoughts are semi-linked by a morsel of a thread or sensation. Sometimes, I swim back upstream to the relevance, but the bilateral linking of my mind’s software is usually glitchy and rarely makes its way back.

Photo by Sherry Wright on Unsplash

My thoughts scatter like vines from a wisteria flower on a brick column. Instead of chaos, I desire to see these meandering branches as a bunch of beautiful, soon-to-be fragrant blossoms of the future that I can inhale and harvest in a vase for my friend Sara on her 30th birthday.

Among the indigenous blooms of ideas native to me, I have many invasive species of seeds, too. I have many thoughts like the coconut trees that I used to think were native to Hawaii but were hand-carried by early Polynesian voyagers to the islands. Over time, I prune those invasive ones away so they don’t damage my mind’s ecosystem.

On the other hand, the Loulu Palms are the only palm trees native to Hawaii. Wowzers. How many thoughts do I have that I thought were naturally rooted in my habitat but were supplanted? It is okay to borrow. Most of these invaders used to always come from the news and Instagram, but now, I am on a quest to find my indigenous thoughts from inward to nurture. The truths that are worth defending.

Speaking of thoughts rooted in my reality, I’m quite chilly. Maybe after this hour of writing, I can take a hot shower. The one I took yesterday was a total rebirth. I scrubbed the mud off my toes. The citronella essential oil residue streamed down my body. That shower was after I went to the most unconventional wedding of my life.

Two friends I met playing beach volleyball married on Hawaii's north shore. It was boho chic-themed. I borrowed a long golden yellow flowy halter dress that could’ve been hemmed but got the job done. I didn’t care too much for shoes since I intended to be barefoot. It was my first time attending an event without recently shaven armpits or underwear. Sorry mom. Cheers to my year of courage. Dare to be different! What wasn’t a success was my mini belly flop of a failure by bringing a plate of cheese and crackers to the vegan potluck.

It was a choose-your-own-adventure reception stocked with a bubble maker in front of the DJ, a hookah lounge, a tea table, a hummus bar, and kombucha on tap. It was delectable. Even my sleep in the yurt was too. Why aren’t more weddings like this?

Call me a romantic — I cannot wait to write my vows to my special someone someday. I have no idea who I’ll say them to, what I’ll be wearing, or where it’ll be. But I’ve thought about how I’ll feel, and I already fear that I won’t be able to get the words out without crying.

At the end of their reception, the bride and groom walked with closed eyes down two aisles of their loved ones under the moonlight. One by one, we got to whisper blessings in their ears and guide them down the path to the bonfire. At the end of the path, my close 60-ish friends and I circled the couple and sang an original song. A flute started sounding. We landed on the lyrics, “You are surrounded by love.” I felt heard with my voice harmonizing and thankful for my voice lessons over the summer. I swayed in a circle like a scene from Dr. Seuss’s song Fah Who Doraze in Whoville. It was beautiful in every way. Saltwater streamed down my cheeks. Life is about love. Passion is for people. Why do I try to trick myself into believing anything else?

So there you have it. A snapshot of reflections from my Monday musings shared on a Wednesday. I can't help but chuckle at the twists and turns. From the ant on my big toe to the daring fashion choices at a boho-chic wedding, life's journey is as unpredictable as most of my writing sessions.

Here's to the tangled vines of thoughts, the invasive species that sneak in, and the moments of bravery from sharing the unshaven truth. Like the failed pancake flip or the time I brought cheese to a vegan potluck, life is a series of delightful surprises.

As I dive back into the chaotic dance of my mind, I'll leave you with a thought: Maybe, just maybe, the loudest, most vibrant blooms in the jungle of thoughts are the ones that embrace their uniqueness, quirks, and occasional lack of underwear.

Until next week's unraveling of thoughts on the keyboard ;)

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I appreciate you reading letter 186!

If ideas resonate, I’d love you to press the heart button, leave a comment, reply to this email, or reach me at vermetjl@gmail.com. If you forget who I am, I welcome you to my online home.

Keep on learning 😁

Mahalo 🌺

Jen

PS - in case you missed last week’s, I shared 🙏 Gratitude for 100 Things & a Modern Day Grace

If you’re reading this because someone shared this newsletter with you, welcome! I’d love it if you signed up:

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🙏Shoutouts

• To my friend Hannah for encouraging me to publish this mumbo jumbo

• To

  Lyle McKeany
  for his support in writing whatever comes out of me

🔍Word to define

Neophilia: love or enthusiasm for what is new or novel; love of novelty, fondness for what is new, strange, or unaccustomed

🌟Quote to inspire

“What makes you different or weird— that’s your strength.”

— Meryl Streep, the actress who plays Miranda Priestly in the “Devil Wears Prada” aka the best movie ever

🎥 Watching

This Christmas-themed chick flick “Love Actually” follows the lives of eight very different couples in dealing with their love lives in various loosely interrelated tales all set during a frantic month before Christmas in London, England.

The airport scene at the end, where all the loved ones meet up, is priceless.

🎧 Listening

The song Christmas is all Around Us from aforementioned movie that is so catchy and it stuck in my head. Enter at your own risk.