Once again, I have no idea where to begin, or for that matter, where to end. I’ve spent the evening reading and reading some more, and I’ve gone through my nightly routine–flossed and brushed my teeth, washed my face, prepared my bed for sleeping. I’ve looked everywhere for inspiration, something to write about, but nothing has seemed remarkable. Sometimes blogging is like watching paint dry. Would something–anything– happen already? For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been reading a book about writing called Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, and Natalie says that if you don’t know where to start, talk about food, so I’ll try that.

Also, do we like Natalie or what?

After one full week of clean eating, I can officially say that it sucks. It’s nice to fit in my jeans and all, but tonight I went grocery shopping for my parents and kept putting item after item into the basket and thinking, Can’t eat that–can’t eat that. Oh, butter bread! Definitely can’t eat that. This afternoon I had salmon and vegetables for breakfast, and tonight I had hamburger patties and vegetables for dinner. Every meal is essentially like the last. This is the part that sucks–no variety. Well, wait. I did have a pickle tonight–that was exciting. Of course, since I’m speaking about a literal pickle and not a euphemistic one, what I actually mean is that it wasn’t exciting at all.

Whenever I eat well for a week (or God forbid two), I always think that should be enough time to reach my ideal weight and feel like Liza Minnelli in Cabaret. Fabulous! My friend George refers to this kind of thinking as “wanting a parade” for making good decisions. (Bring on the band!) Obviously, my expectations are too high. Every day I wake up wanting instant results, but my body always says exactly what the button on my cashier at the grocery store tonight said–Nope! Not today. This is almost enough to make me want to go back to eating chocolate cake for breakfast. Almost.

On nights like tonight, writing feels like the diet–ho, hum–routine–is it really worth it? Words that work show up about as often as winning lottery numbers. Whenever the last word does show up, I think, God, I’m glad THAT’S over. Other nights I sit down at the laptop, and it’s like a miracle. I can’t type the words fast enough. I get to the end of the post and think, Brilliant.  Rarely is there an indication beforehand of what kind of night it’s going to be, so I’ve decided that creativity is a lot like that asshole friend who says, “Follow me to the party,” but never uses his damn turn signal along the way. So you just take the trip and try to keep up. Feeling mostly lost and out of control the entire time, somehow you arrive, always astonished when you do.

Natalie says this is normal. Some days your writing soars, some days it sinks–never mind–keep writing. This reminds me of a principle taught in The Bhagavad Gita, one of the Hindu scriptures–take action, but let go of the results. In other words, eat better, but don’t expect to gain anything from it. Sit down to write every night, but don’t expect it to go anywhere. This, of course, is a tough pill to swallow. Personally, my inner control freak thinks it’s a bunch of shit. (Is it any wonder I don’t have a dot in the middle of my forehead?) That being said, I don’t remember the last time a day, a diet, or even a simple blog post ended like I thought it was going to. So how much control does my inner control freak really have?

Not a lot, that’s how much.

I find this idea of not having much control both terrifying and exciting. It’s like, I didn’t make the sun rise this morning or hang the stars in the sky, but I’d like to think I could get through the day on my own, thank you very much. But take today, for example. I had it all planned out. First I’d go to the chiropractor, then I’d go to the library to read Natalie, then I’d come home, eat, and go shopping. Well, I got to the chiropractor, but before I could point my car in the direction of the library, my body said coffee, so I ended up at a coffee shop. That’d be normal enough, I suppose, but I ran into one of my old friends, someone who said they’d uncharacteristically had a couple dreams about me lately, so maybe it wasn’t an accident that we ran into each other. Who’s to say why anything happens the way it does?

As I understand it, this is how the mystery of life works. You wake up every day, and even if you have a plan, you try to be open to whatever happens. You do your best to let go of the idea that you’re leading the way. You think, “I want coffee,” then your ego takes credit for it when you’re holding a cup of joe in your hands. But where did that thought come from? That’s the mystery. Tonight at the grocery store I kept noticing a booklet called The Science of Emotions, so I bought it and started reading it. Now it sits on a stack of several other books, some of which are mine, some of which belong to the library. (I eventually ended up there this evening.) I can’t tell you what I’m going to do with all that information anymore than the man in the moon can, just like I can’t tell what the results of my boring diet will be. Still, I’m learning that not knowing is the exciting part, just like arriving anywhere is the astonishing part. (Look, we got to the last paragraph!) Also, I’m beginning to believe that each new moment is not only a starting point full of possibilities, but is also a destination that looks like right here, right now. In this sense and without turn signals, we follow the mystery, constantly arriving, never knowing what’s next.