It’s hard to get where you’re going, when you’re not sure where that is.
It’s like I have a map in my hand, and I can clearly see the remarkably unhelpful “you are here” dot but the space that branches off from there is blank in every direction.
I know I’m searching for something, but I am not sure yet what that is or to what extent, so I’m doubting my decisions, my ability to make good ones. Taking steps toward your goal is a challenge when you’re not sure what you want the end result to be.
I am lost.
I know I have to keep going, but I’m not sure what that’s supposed to look like or how it’s supposed to feel. I try to regularly check-in with myself: If it’s supposed to feel shitty and confusing and painful then I’m right on track.
It’s hard to know if this feeling of burnout has evolved into depression or not, but I feel sad.
Not all the time, but some of the time.
Well, okay a good enough chunk of the time that it’s there, I’m carrying it with me, daily, and I am actively working to either fight it or hold it, I’m not sure which, it changes depending on who’s in the room.
I’d hate to experience what I would be like if I didn’t have this practice.
I am acutely aware of my aloneness in this.
I know others are going through this, but even if you talk about what’s going on with you, you still feel alone in it. There’s something about it, all the feelings the mess inside you, that cuts you off from feeling connected.
Perhaps that’s a breaking away.
Perhaps that’s my breaking away from a group and system that wasn’t healthy for me.
Perhaps that’s a good thing. A part of the grieving process. Something to be celebrated.
Perhaps it’s my breaking into being 40 this week.
Which again is healthy and something to be celebrated, this new chapter.
I feel like I’ve been living my whole life to be 40.
I really do.
There are moments when I am able to embrace the foundness in being lost.
Acknowledge that I am seemingly nowhere that I am cutting my strings from conventional shit and looking for a real change. The westernness in me wants desperately to know what that change looks like. Just so that I’ll recognize it when I see it.
When people ask me if I’m looking for a new job or how the job search is going, it’s like I’m in my first day in a new place and everybody else already knows each other and I’m walking into the lunchroom and trying to act cool but my tray is shaking in my hands and I’m trying to find someone to sit with and I wish the shit I’d selected to carry with me wasn’t so loud and cumbersome.
I’m doing a lot of work internally on fear. That’s been my intention since the summer--not to let my fear live me. I’m working toward living and acting without fear, but I’m not there yet, I’m having a softer opening, so right now I’m working to not let my fear live me.
I’m not sure how it’s going yet.
I know I’ve made progress, but I feel like the drop off is coming, or perhaps it’s a big leap that’s coming--I hope I’m ready for it. That I’ve laid the foundation for a gentle landing, or that I’ll just be in a better place to lovingly embrace the spiky roughness at the bottom of the cliff as I hurtle toward it.
My preparation is entirely bound in carrot seed logic. In the story I play everyone. I plant the seed of self-care every day, and truth be told these days I tell myself that nothing will come of it more times that I care to admit. But everyday I plant the seed, and water it, and in my practice tell myself that I’m doing what I can do, it’s okay if the practice is the only nurturing thing I do for myself today because doing one nurturing thing for myself is more than doing no nurturing thing. Usually I forget this over the course of the day, but I am always in a state of trying to remind myself of it.
When I was a little girl my parents used to tell me, if you’re ever lost just stay where you are and you will be found.
I can’t stay where I am, but I am staying with who I am.
Staying with myself. Breathing through it. Planting the seed.
And, hoping the feeling of foundness finds me.
A ship in harbor is safe--but that’s not what ships are built for.
(John A. Shedd)
It’s 6:23am. All the boys in my house are still sleeping, and I’ve meditated and planked and put the baby’s whole milk in my coffee, nobody has asked me anything or touched me for the last 9 hours, so it’s looking like anything might be possible today.