being wrong is a good thing

The rug was pulled out from under me. My melodramatic tendencies are tempting me to say this is the worst thing that could have happened – and it’s not, not at all – but the intensity of the feeling could have fooled me, so I’ll indulge a little. For the sake of the story, the rug was pulled out from under me. I coveted this rug forever, finally got my feet on it, and it was pulled out from under me. This certainly is a convenient way to put it. Such a turn of phrase satisfies the pitiful urge to give up responsibility but of course, in all honesty, I fucked up. This isn’t self-blame at all by the way, I am saying this with utmost compassion. Admitting to a mistake is a loving thing to do. But this advanced stage of emotional maturity isn’t reached before somewhat of an existential crisis – at least this time. This time, it felt like a cumbersome piece of floor covering was dragged on the ground with no care, and me along with it. Now, the feeling is valid, but let’s also note there isn’t much space for perspective in a dysregulated nervous system. Wisdom comes later, it comes after the storm, and this storm begins with the pulling of a rug.

Everyone has a rug, by the way; it’s the one thing we wish for the most, and usually desire to make up for perceived lack elsewhere. Money, success, status, revenge, doesn’t matter. The quest of the rug is always driven by insecurity, projection and a varying level of desperation, conscious or not. In subtler narratives, it can be fueled by the sincere aspiration to fulfil a genuine dream, but the motivations still may be ambiguous. In both cases, when obtained, the coveted rug only provides fleeting satisfaction. If at all. We all have some sort of rug we wish to display in the center of a room, even if no one ever gets to come in. Mine was to be a successful full-time artist. Fundamentally, there is nothing wrong with this. In fact, I still might want that. But there certainly is a gap between the reason I want it now, and the reason I wanted it then. It’s in the gap that lies the rug.

I began obsessing over it the minute I felt it slide – that is, the moment things appeared ‘stagnant’. I’m using quotation marks here because this is what I said at the time, that things were ‘stagnant’. What it was, is that they were changing and I didn’t want them to. Last year was a success, and this year was different. Different could have been the opportunity to reconsider my relationship with the rug, or at the very least, its role in the interior design. But as already established, few insights can penetrate a constricted mind and the perspective of shifting the rug’s angle became a real threat. I refused to move it and so there it remained, an unattainable island in the middle of the room, with the rest of my meaningless dreams and emotional baggage anxiously arranged around it. Never to outshine the rug, of course, only enhance it.

Resistance doesn’t prevent change from happening, it just makes it more uncomfortable that it needs to be. Things can – and will – be  challenging but they never have to be excruciating to be worth it. They don’t even have to be hard at all, struggle isn’t a measure of deservingness nor value. But a storm was brewing and in spite of my best efforts – meaning, my excessive pride – the rug was sliding, and me with it. I experienced this shift like an identity robbery, like an unfair test of my commitment to an old promise I had made myself, as prospective revenge on a painful moment in time. I held onto that rug for dear life, and it did absolutely nothing for me. All I got were strands of broken fibers and sore palms. I let go in the end but not in an effort of spiritual realignment, I was fighting an embarrassingly losing battle. Surrender in that case didn’t bring any relief nor peace, it brought no clarity either; my eyes were wide open and I saw nothing at all.

The thing is, wanting this rug made sense to an extent; a life devoted to art is what I really wanted, but for the worst fucking reasons. I wanted this rug to impress the guests, cover up a bruised self-esteem, hide all the dirt. I wanted an appealing narrative, a good story to tell and sadly, not even to fulfil my true artistic inclinations. This was personal and not at all about art anymore, it wasn’t about the love of the craft nor the irrepressible need to give shape to an idea. It was about that one time I got really hurt and never got over it. If you cling to the story, any unexpected turn it takes could be the worst-case scenario. Release your grip and suddenly, heartbreak is an open door, an opportunity. Rug-less, the room feels different, spacious. Free, even. What I thought the rug would grant me was endless possibilities, ultimate freedom, but I had that already, I had it all along. Ultimate freedom was a bare floor.

I’m saying all that to say: I achieved my lifelong dream of becoming a full-time artist and it didn’t feel as good as I thought it would, so I am no longer one. At the same time, this might still be exactly who I am, in another way. Being a full-time artist expands way out of the five-day work week, it’s not a handful of hours. It’s a way of showing up, with passion and integrity, it’s a choice made over and over again. It’s now and it’s forever. Still, I had to wander off-course to find my way – at least, that’s the story I like to tell these days. A mistake is an open window. Being wrong is a good thing.