A lot has happened since I last sat down to write. Well, that’s not entirely true. I sat down last week and wrote a few sentences, saved the draft, and moved on with my day. I wasn’t feeling it, ya know? Even now, as I drink my one allotted glass of wine (I’ve decided I drink too much) I feel frustrated and sluggish. Emma Louise will not stop pacing the living room, wagging her tail and barking. It’s enough to drive me mad.
I was worried last week that my dog was depressed. I even wrote “I’m worried that my dog is depressed.” She seems better now.
My (trivial) concerns pass in waves.
A big one hit last month when one of my good friend’s father died rather suddenly. I went home for the funeral. When I saw her, Erica, she was wearing one of my old black shirts with little gold diamonds scattered across it. “That’s my shirt!” “I know.”
I love that about her.
I came home from that funeral concerned about my own self and my own family and everything that is in my small (and safe) world. I wondered how to stay there — how can I love and protect those closest to me? I wondered how I could get out. How do I, as my editor urges that I do, “free my mind, yo.”
I feared yesterday that I’d hit a creative plateau. A crisis of confidence surged through me. I wished I hadn’t had 10.5 beers on Saturday. I regretted Sunday’s pizza, which if you don’t eat the last piece, isn’t eating an entire pizza. I sat at my desk at work and knew I had so many things to do but I feared that I could not do them. Or even worse, that I could not do them well.
I am better today. Like Emma Louise, I guess. Perhaps I should be more careful how I rub off on her.
My yoga teacher ended tonight’s class with these words: May you have the courage to see yourself clearly and the grace to let go.
Good shit, right?
So that is where I am (and wherever you are, of course, is perfect). Again and again I grow comfortable in my life, even if the comfort doesn’t necessarily feel good. I’ve been sleeping in, tugging at Emma’s silky ears, asking her if we maybe just might go for a walk. Do I earn that walk? Or should I be pushing myself to go, do, be something else entirely?
I don’t have the answer.
But if I did, why would I still be clanging away on this keyboard, dusted with food crumbs and sticky with coffee stains? For now, my silky-eared lovebug can’t get enough of those walks. And a deep feeling tells me to hold on tight to that.