Julia Dvorin                                          (Solipsistic Storyteller)

You know what’s weird (besides Leap Day)? I think I’m becoming an introvert. I know, I know...those of you who have known me for more than, let’s see, 30 seconds are probably snorting liquid out your noses right now at the suggestion. Believe me, it’s tripping me out too. Me, an introvert? Me, the one who loves all kinds of people and their stories, who is perfectly comfortable in a crowd, throws big parties, loves a good gabfest with friends and will happily start chatting with complete strangers? The one who’s trying to create a social movement around claiming one’s authentic, true freakiness and broadcasting it to the world? Please to explain, I hear you saying (or perhaps sputtering, if you haven’t gotten the nose-liquid thing under control). Ok, let me present the evidence for my outrageous claim:

1) I spend a lot of time at home, by myself, doing solitary things like staring into my computer or iPad, or puttering around the house in a never-ending effort to control the clutter that threatens to invade every surface. Ever since we downsized (and finally let go of) our entrepreneurial efforts at running a small business last year, I don’t go to an office anymore, and I don’t go out to client meetings or networking events. Especially since the beginning of the year, I’ve been increasingly serious about the pursuit of my creative dreams, including devoting large chunks of daily time to my writing (though apparently not blogging, I hear you say. Ok, fine, you got me there. Now stop poking and pay attention.) Writing, as I’m sure is stunningly obvious, is generally a solitary activity. It requires dedicated chunks of time, quiet (or at least no un-chosen audio distractions), focus and lots of checking Twitter and Facebook staring off into space. If it wasn’t for my kids and their activities, my occasional volunteer activities or the need for groceries and self-care appointments, I might spend days in a row here in the same couple of rooms, just me and the computer (and now, the cat, because every writer needs a cat). Ok, yeah, Josh is often here too, but he’s usually staring at his own computer. And I’ve grown accustomed to that. I like it. I like my house (unless it’s especially messy) and my computer and my writing time. Sometimes I get irritated when I have to leave and go do other things, even the ones that are fun.

2) I’m having an increasingly hard time with communication, e.g. using the phone or responding to even the relatively reduced amount of email I get. I used to be really good about proactively reaching out to friends and family, checking in and making plans, but these days, I often put it off or at least don’t prioritize it. Relationship management is overwhelming now in a way that it didn’t use to be, or at best it’s a lot less attractive to me. Even Facebook interactions (which used to be a great “quick hit” of connection and catch-up with my various networks) are sometimes so overwhelming that I ignore social media for days at a time.

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Please insert ritual apologies for having not posted in far too long here. There haven't been any crises or upheavals preventing me, just the usual struggle to cram the too many things I want to do into too little time. I've mostly been spending my time writing fiction rather than blog posts, which is a great change of pace and I'm glad for it, but I do feel the tug of wanting to produce more content for poor Parentheticals. All of which leads me to today's metaphorical musing, about being a Pinball Wizard.

I started thinking about pinball the other day as the perfect metaphor for the two-sided feeling of bouncing back and forth between two tendencies, with all the shiny noisy rewards and perilous pitfalls one bumps into in between. Specifically, I was thinking about how I'm constantly flipping the little silver balls of my time and attention back and forth between a driving desire (and sharply-honed ability) to Get Things Done, and an appreciation of what's already been accomplished (not to mention an appreciation of all the little pieces that had to align in order for those accomplishments to happen, whether or not it was me that aligned them or they Just Happened). Sometimes my balls run into obstacles and head off in unexpected or unhelpful directions, and sometimes they let me rack up tons of GTD or Appreciation points, and sometimes no matter what I do or how masterfully I flip (or shake the whole game while cursing and railing against fate and luck), that ball just vanishes into the dark void and I have to start over. 

Now, I am a pretty good "pinball" player, but I still have to think about it too hard. (Do this, do that! Appreciate how far you've come! Try to head for that corner over there, it'll give you way more points. Head up that ramp! Now down! Hey look at that shiny light! Cool, by doing this I got even more points! Can I do it again? Aw, look at how many points I've already racked up, I really am a wizard!) What I want is to get to the point where I'm like the Pinball Wizard from the Who song, who plays by intuition and wins because he doesn't get distracted by all the shiny noisy. I want to get to the point where I just *know* when it's time to push and use my Juggler superpowers to get things done, and when it's time to be my own cheerleader and hang out in appreciation mode. Of course, the only way to get to that point is to wean myself away from the shiny noisy distractions, or at least to pay more attention to the flippers (that actually *are* under my control) than to the variety of things my balls collide into or the unpredictable ways the balls bounce. Hey, Pinball Wizardry isn't a school of magic for everyone's tastes, but it's what I'm studying right now...

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Today is my birthday (yay!), but for those of you who've been around for awhile, you know it's also the anniversary of my cancer diagnosis (Stage 2 Hodgkin's Lymphoma). Of particular note today, however, is that it's also a Big Number anniversary: 20 years. 20 years! That's a damn big number. 20 years since I heard a new doctor in a new town say to me, "well, I've got good news and bad news. The bad news is...it's cancer. The good news is, if you had to get any kind of cancer, this is the kind to get." 20 years have passed since that big-fat-pushpin-on-the-map-of-life moment, and boy howdy am I a different, more evolved, more experienced person now. I feel both pleased and disquieted that so much time has gone by: pleased because, yeah, I kicked cancer's ass and lived to tell the tale, and disquieted because woah, how'd I get old enough to be able to so easily and clearly recall something that happened 20 years ago? 

Because it feels like only yesterday, in some ways. I can so easily call up the anxiety, fear, physical pain, and grief; the courage I had to summon and sustain; the love I was surrounded with; and the sense of vertiginous change touching and transforming everything I thought I had or knew. It was a potent, transformative cocktail whose hangover will probably last my whole life, though it certainly is fading with time and with the addition of other pushpin moments to the mix. I'll always have that "cancer survivor" identity with me, even though it's not a central one to me anymore except in particular times and places.

One thing is for certain, I'm still glad that I have this personally defining moment to come back to every year, something to really remind me that life is short and uncertain and beautiful and kind (yes, kind) in its random assignation of growth-inducing suffering. I didn't enjoy the suffering, but damn I appreciate having suffered, grown, and moved on. Here's to the next 20 years--may they go by as juicy and full as the last 20, and give me as many opportunities to keep evolving as these last 20 have. 

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