Once again, I have my hand on a stick up the back of a better writer's back

I stayed up late tonight reading Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Promote Peace . . . One Sch..., the story of an American mountaineer who stumbled into a remote village in Pakistan after a failed attempt to summit K2. By the time he healed enough to go back home, he'd become determined to return to this village in order to build them a school. He was amazed to see children gather on a chilly ledge to practice lessons by drawing with sticks in the dirt on days that the teacher they shared with another village was not present.

Children, huddled in the cold, practicing lessons, alone. No one telling them what to do, or how to do it. Sitting in the cold, focused and determined.

Made it kind of hard to feel bad for my kids struggling to understand, distill, and regurgitate concepts, with pencil and paper, in a warm house, with bellies full and a comfy bed waiting.

Anywho, I'd been feeling this disquiet lately, this anxious inertia that keeps me from moving very far in any direction. Granted, movements to date hadn't yielded much reward, financial or professional. It's been half a step backward for too many months now. Almost seems like doing myself a favor to keep as still as possible.

Having the kids here helps, as that sort of movement and progress is circular and safe; once you get through one day successfully and happily, there is another waiting for you. And, if you've done a decent job, each day should add confidence and ease to the circular routine.

I can't name, let alone justify, my anxious inertia. I was exhausted at the end of today, despite having done nothing more than piece together a few graphic design projects after taking the children to school, dropping off the application for the free/reduced lunch program (can you believe I qualify? I do.), and doing daily household and blogging chores.

That is, I didn't understand until I read Greg Mortenson's thoughts on page 105 of Three Cups of Tea, as he worked out at the climbing gym in Berkeley after a disappointing and unsuccessful journey to Pakistan to deliver the school he'd promised.

Preparing for K2, honing himself into shape, he'd been a hero to the members of City Rock. But now, every time he opened his mouth, his stories were about failures: a summit not reached, a woman lost, a bridge, and a school, not built. One night, walking home very late after work, Mortenson was mugged across the street from his house by four boys who couldn't have been older than fourteen. While one held a pistol aimed shakily at Mortenson's chest, his accomplice emptied Mortenson's pockets. "Sheeyit. Bitch ain't got but two dollars," the boy said, pocketing the bills and handing Mortenson back his empty wallet. "Why we got to jump the most broke-down white dude in Berkeley?"

Um, hello? Fate can't be serious when she tries to hold me up. Murphy's already cleaned me out, go pick on him.
When was the last time anyone thought, "Let's get Mindy! She's the Wiz! She can do anything!" Or even, "We've been working on this without much progress, let's see what Mindy comes up with with all her experience."

Experience collecting unemployment, that is. Experience juggling bills and graciously accepting loans and gifts from parents when there's no other way to make ends meet. Experience reminding the children that we can't just run out and buy everything we want, because we're broke. Experience hugging the children each time they say, "I hope you find a job soon, Mama."

Broke. Broke down. Broken. In the spring, Mortenson wallowed in his depression. He pictured the hopeful faces of the Korphe men when they'd put him on the bus to Islamabad, sure, Inshallah, that he'd be back soon with money. How could they have so much faith in him when he had so little in himself?

I finally had to put the book down when in the next paragraph, an old friend called him to ask, "How's it going?" There I was, in the shadows behind him, whispering, "Tell him you no speakee the Inglese and hang up!" Who needs to go there, really?
Who wants to hear the same old story again? And honestly, who wants to tell it? I've been telling it for over two thousand pages and shockingly enough, don't have anything original left to say. Sure, I can turn a phrase, but then again you'd better if you've spent six years talking about economic stress, job woes, feelings of inadequacy, and sheer helplessness.

I actually said these words to Phil the other day: "I wish you'd known me six years ago. I was bulletproof. On fire. Could do no wrong. Everything I set into motion hummed. I was a leader. I was respected. I was a champion in my field. Everyone knew me, and that was a good thing."

Today, I have just enough contact with old friends and colleagues for them to remember that today's conversation doesn't sound all that different from the last time we spoke. Kids get older, things change, but I'm still that loser on the climbing wall, reminded every day of what I used to be, unsure of what I could ever be, and afraid to make it any worse.