I'm Molting

“To change one’s life: (1) start immediately; (2) do it flamboyantly; and (3) no exceptions.” – William James

Snakes molt a few times per year. Their bodies outgrow the old skin, and shedding it helps remove pesky annoyances like parasites and debris.

I’m attempting a molt as the year closes out. I’ve outgrown this skin, and there is always debris to cast. As to parasites, I work hard to stay surrounded with allies and advocates, even of the corrupting kind. Still, there is value in refreshing the circle, for that’s not a zero sum game.

Snake Shedding Skin, by Alysha Dawn

I admit to a few moral failings, from the Calvinist perspective. It can be challenging to refuse a petit verre when offered, and then another. I can tumble for someone impulsively and irrationally, taking the scars and leaving the tears. (The chances of this happening increase proportionally with the number of petits verres.) I am a master procrastinator. Nothing motivates me to dust or do laundry more impulsively than a creative deadline. What else? Plenty.

Can we too slither free from our vexing debris? Unlikely completely. But starting the new year with a fresh unsullied skin, even if not surviving first contact, can be instructive. Some blemished bits and unhealthy pieces merit leaving on the trail. A new set of faults and flaws surely await our serpentine glide. Onward.

So, just how do we slip the skin? These 3 pillars provide the core foundation of authenticity and personal stability (or so I will argue over un petit verre): what you do; where you live; and whom you love. Dislodging just one can provide ample imbalance to loosen the membrane. (I upended all 3 with my move to Provence in 2010. Effective, but not sure I’d recommend it.)

Where I live

It’s normal to experience the occasional stall. The wind dies, the sails flutter, the sea calms, and there you sit. I have learned to accept these pauses as an excuse to do nothing productive until the wind picks back up (see moral failings above). It always has and I have had fun waiting. Recently it hasn’t, and so I’ve decided to row to a new lagoon across the sea. Maybe there’s a fresh breeze over there. Maybe I’ll grow a brilliant new skin over there.

Here I float in my new lagoon, typing a few words and playing some music when not dusting or doing laundry. C’mon you beautiful breeze.