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.