“But nobody wants to hear this tale
The plot is clichéd, the jokes are stale
And baby we’ve all heard it all before
Oh, I could get specific but
Nobody needs a catalog
With details of love I can’t sell anymore”
~Aimee Mann, “Invisible Ink”
My mother knew when I was bullshitting; her intensity kept me honest, at least with her. Today’s her birthday. She would’ve turned 66.
Since her passing, I take time on March 10 to run an authenticity evaluation in her honor and for my sanity. It ain’t fancy; it’s an opportunity to check in with brutal honesty. I moved to Sweden as a result of last year’s findings.
This year, I’m in the midst of my unconventional reinvention. I’ve decluttered, unplugged, and let go to a staggering degree. This really ain’t fancy, but starting from scratch never is. However, I’ve never felt more authentic, less mucked down with bullshit. And as I look in the mirror today, I see the resolve that was missing from my eyes; I’m confident my mother’s struggle to raise me right hasn’t been wasted.
I’m creating a new book, not just a new chapter. Pattie would be proud.