At 30,000 Ft
I am not fine. I’m lost. And that’s okay.
I’ve been struggling with a lot lately. Growing pains of those I love, some of them my own.
I still feel an undeniable urgency to Rescue. Protect. Nurture. Support. This isn’t going to leave me anytime soon. I’m a mother hen. A superhero. Maybe a martyr. But without a center, I am no one’s rock.
I’m on a journey. It’s long, frivolous, and lonely. My path meanders, and seems to have no direction. No destination. Perhaps the experience of floating aimlessly but with purpose will afford lessons desperately called for. I constantly submerge myself in environments and scenarios where there is no certainty, only probability that the outcome will be what I hope to expect. Sometimes it’s a win, fortunately there are few that end as a lose. I allow myself enough time to learn grace, to identify and process, to express when called to. I avoid groups when possible. I am not always on.
I recognize that I’m going through a metamorphosis. Situations no longer trigger reactions from me that I recognize as my own. I still FEEL so much, but my actions come from a place of logic, of stillness, of complacency. I know without understanding, and accept without needing to know. Very strange, for me.
I’m less chatty. I find less need to express myself incessantly, and smile in comfortable silence. I get the feeling that this makes others feel awkward, that I don’t strike up conversations, ask a million questions, make small talk. It’s not what they’ve come to expect. It’s not what I’ve come to expect.
It’s time I’ve started writing again. Whenever. Whatever. Just journaling. I tried to rant. I was very angry for just a second and by the time I took a few minutes to put it down in words, I was ready for a nap. It passed too quickly. How is this possible? When I’d write, I’d write out of frustration, angst, pain, and confusion. Somewhere along this journey my muse has vanished. Somehow I forget to obsess. I lose momentum.
There’s been a shift. A series of them, each more prominent than the one before. There are moments where I don’t recognize myself, and I’m scared out of my mind.
I sit here, on the most turbulent 6 hour flight of my life, watching the ceiling panels vibrate, just finished a 400 page book, and I don’t feel dizzy this time. Where’s my motion sickness? I’m not stressed, I don’t want comfort food. I don’t even have my iPod. I don’t want to nap, so I will write and write and write, until the battery dies on my laptop and then I will just sit and be.
This weekend will be difficult. I’m alone; I’m breaking even on this trip. I certainly didn’t pack well. The weather will be cold, I have no coat with me. My book is finished, the hotel has no gift shop where I can buy another. I have no transportation. I hate TV. I will work, and when I’m not working, I will walk in the cold, a spectacle under layers of mismatched clothing, and I will breathe.
I will come home to someone I truly care about, and we will have a conversation I’ve already heard in my mind far too many times. The delicate ways to simultaneously express acceptance and rejection. I’m comfortable with it. I may cry, but I knew to expect this.
I will be visited by the best friend I’ve ever had, and we will journey together for two weeks as our paths intertwine. Mothers, sisters, reflections to ourselves and each other. She could not have picked a better time to be here.
I’ve been struggling with a lot lately. Growing pains of those I love, some of them my own.
I still feel an undeniable urgency to Rescue. Protect. Nurture. Support. This isn’t going to leave me anytime soon. I’m a mother hen. A superhero. Maybe a martyr. But without a center, I am no one’s rock.
I’m on a journey. It’s long, frivolous, and lonely. My path meanders, and seems to have no direction. No destination. Perhaps the experience of floating aimlessly but with purpose will afford lessons desperately called for. I constantly submerge myself in environments and scenarios where there is no certainty, only probability that the outcome will be what I hope to expect. Sometimes it’s a win, fortunately there are few that end as a lose. I allow myself enough time to learn grace, to identify and process, to express when called to. I avoid groups when possible. I am not always on.
I recognize that I’m going through a metamorphosis. Situations no longer trigger reactions from me that I recognize as my own. I still FEEL so much, but my actions come from a place of logic, of stillness, of complacency. I know without understanding, and accept without needing to know. Very strange, for me.
I’m less chatty. I find less need to express myself incessantly, and smile in comfortable silence. I get the feeling that this makes others feel awkward, that I don’t strike up conversations, ask a million questions, make small talk. It’s not what they’ve come to expect. It’s not what I’ve come to expect.
It’s time I’ve started writing again. Whenever. Whatever. Just journaling. I tried to rant. I was very angry for just a second and by the time I took a few minutes to put it down in words, I was ready for a nap. It passed too quickly. How is this possible? When I’d write, I’d write out of frustration, angst, pain, and confusion. Somewhere along this journey my muse has vanished. Somehow I forget to obsess. I lose momentum.
There’s been a shift. A series of them, each more prominent than the one before. There are moments where I don’t recognize myself, and I’m scared out of my mind.
I sit here, on the most turbulent 6 hour flight of my life, watching the ceiling panels vibrate, just finished a 400 page book, and I don’t feel dizzy this time. Where’s my motion sickness? I’m not stressed, I don’t want comfort food. I don’t even have my iPod. I don’t want to nap, so I will write and write and write, until the battery dies on my laptop and then I will just sit and be.
This weekend will be difficult. I’m alone; I’m breaking even on this trip. I certainly didn’t pack well. The weather will be cold, I have no coat with me. My book is finished, the hotel has no gift shop where I can buy another. I have no transportation. I hate TV. I will work, and when I’m not working, I will walk in the cold, a spectacle under layers of mismatched clothing, and I will breathe.
I will come home to someone I truly care about, and we will have a conversation I’ve already heard in my mind far too many times. The delicate ways to simultaneously express acceptance and rejection. I’m comfortable with it. I may cry, but I knew to expect this.
I will be visited by the best friend I’ve ever had, and we will journey together for two weeks as our paths intertwine. Mothers, sisters, reflections to ourselves and each other. She could not have picked a better time to be here.