I’m having a day where my head is firmly disengaged from the work that sits, scattered around my desk, begging me to deign to give it a little attention. My thoughts are rising bubbles, filled with plans for the weekend (tonight–dinner at home and a couple hours reading books at Barnes and Noble by myself, tomorrow–a run with a friend on Kelly Drive [weather permitting] and then dinner with friends, including the running partner and her mother, at Mr. Martino’s Trattoria), ways to write about potlucks and reminders to myself that sometimes I just can’t. The previous sentence might sound like an unfinished one, but really, that’s what I meant.

Sometimes I just can’t. I can’t make myself like my job. I can’t make more money magically appear in my checking account before I get paid again. I can’t bring a guy into my life or change my roommate or make my butt any smaller. Accepting the fact that I can’t do these and a number of other things is somehow comforting to me. Because in accepting that I can’t do them, I release myself from the pressure of them, the pain of them, the guilt of them. We live in a society where the personal mantra is, “I can make it happen” and the corporate one is “Just Do It.” But sometimes, you can’t make it happen or just do it. Giving yourself the permission to accept that fact is one of the kindest things you can do for yourself.

All of this doesn’t mean that I don’t still believe in the power of intention or the fact that we create the reality in which we live. I’m saying that I believe in the creative paradox that exists between “I can’t” and “I can” just as much as I believe in the beauty and wonder of accepting that you can’t. And so, I can’t and it is good.