Day's End

With work consuming the majority of my time, lately, I have a tendency to begin to feel rather purposeless. My creative life falls to the wayside, and I have little time to rest in the sun and read and clean up after my morning rush. But, as I've worked at the coffee shop today, I've thought about whether I would feel satisfied if I was doing my creative work all the time. If my life was different, more free, would it be enough?

Sometimes I wonder if anything is really enough. I notice that I don't often feel satisfied. Part of this could be my ever-analyzing mind resisting any sort of rest or letting go. Part of it may be the fantasies of living a very gleaming, sun-lit, successful, romance adorned life.

And though I have my moments, even in my moments of bliss, I begin to roam the familiar passages of my brain, trying to draw conclusions from the bliss, and most often using up energy I could be spending enjoying, determining whether the bliss is warranted, whether I should start worrying, and usually the answer to that question is a resounding (truly unwarranted) yes.

What I've been thinking about tonight is how I can be content, what grounds I can authentically say, at the end of the day, that I've done what I've needed to, and it is okay to rest. First off, work isn't much of a choice, and while I'm there, if I can cultivate any positivity, any connection, perhaps any food for thought or eventual creative works, then work is not a waste. And, it financially sustains my other endeavors. After work, if I can go into my own work, and perhaps even for a half hour give over to the spinning wheels of color and words, I am fulfilling the part of myself that has always desired to make, to inspire, to tell stories, to breathe some sort of life that is not necessary to life, but to moving into the vibrant swells life offers.

If I can be close to someone...hug or laugh or spill or simply exist together for some amount of time, I have made connection, and connection is perhaps the most essential aspect of my happiness, of my finding meaning in life at all.

I don't think God hates me for not running running running all the time. Actually, I do think that, but I know, deep inside, that this is not the case. I know I also see myself in an incredibly negative light all the time because I have not accomplished. And, as mentioned earlier, I don't know if any accomplishment would actually make me feel worthwhile, as if I deserve to take in air, food, go into worry-less rest.

But, I am choosing, for my own sanity and potential happiness, to learn satisfaction. To, when sitting on my bed, seconds from lying down, know that I am human. That some wasted time is good. That if I have loved at all, been honest, done the best I could in my art and work (the best I can given any constraints and my humanity--not perfect), if I have striven at all to connect and know God (for me, this is important), than I am okay.

I can't afford to heap guilt over my head anymore. I need to know that rest is okay. That sometimes our expectations really are unreasonable, and in one day, unreachable. We need to learn the process, which is slow, and requires breaks and lots of time out cuddling, putting our feet up, breathing deep.

Thriving

With one tonsil the size of a bowling ball making the slightest swallow a most horrendous and anxiety producing experience, and my work schedule infringing on any potential sanity and rest and creative projects, somehow, in the coffee house, having just brewed a very potent cup of green/black/fruity tea, watching the rain pull from the sky and spool down the sidewalk and parking lot, with Ingrid Michaelson's hummy hopeful songs dipping through the air, I feel light. I feel relaxed. I feel softened--tensity trailing until I am a weighted cloud, leaning against the counter just enough.

I am reflecting, actually, on the good. The fact that I do have a job, that this tea is soothing the tonsil that's freaking me out. That I can do this--journal, read, listen to music that inspires and cradles my deep, sip tea, listen to customers' stories, feel familiar, dabble in the poetry running somewhere behind the stressed portion of me. I am remembering that I was able to spend time with good friends this week. I was able to have deep spiritual discussions with one who I haven't seen in two years.

As cheesy as it feels to write this, I saw my first sunset with my boyfriend. I was able to share time and laughter and silliness and acceptance, and know, for another week, how very lucky I am, and how that feeling is mutual.

My bank account might be drained over car expenses and doctor's appointments (if this tonsil thing gets worse), but I'll still be here, still with friends, still working, still sharing, still attempting to open myself to bigger, more meaningful experiences and concepts.

I need, often, to step back. To stop pining over what's lost (time to work, time to worry, time to sickness, time to thoughts about what will happen if I never forgive my father, never become super-spiritual, never go to graduate school, never accomplish anything), and know what I have, what I will take and live tomorrow and the next day and the next week. More time with friends, a lover, with books that might help me get closer to believing, to trusting, to living more deeply and truly and freely. I will write. I will thrive.

And eventually, perhaps, I won't need to step back. I'll have grieved enough to have truly lost. And I will have taken my father off his hook and gone even farther forward. I will love better and take myself a little less seriously.

I feel like a cheeseball today. Oh well. I feel good. There's sweetness popping around in my life, and I'm grateful.