The Language of Hanging On
Right now I am trying to breathe. I have worked myself into a state very near panic over the things I've always wanted with all of my heart that are beginning to materialize. Which reminds me of how I always felt when I heard people complain about kitchen renovation (oh, boohoo) until I renovated MY kitchen (BOOHOO FOR REAL!!).
Every night this week I have vowed to start my morning in my window seat with candles and prayer and meditation and morning pages and a big smile to greet the day. Instead every morning this week I have rolled out of bed and thrown myself into the computer chair with a coffee IV ready to attack whatever is attacking me first. Emails, schedules, calendars, cute cat forwards, scary stuff. As a result I've entered my day like a razzled, frazzled rabid chicken with its head cut off. Last night I collapsed into bed, had a small temper tantrum and wept until I was soothed into a peaceful coma with frozen pizza and Netflix.
I mentioned my disappointment in the deadly gap between what I know I should do and what I actually am doing to a friend on a morning walk. "Last January I had a vision that became a reality. I had my shit together! I was happy and carefree," I told her.
"No you weren't," she said. "We spent hours on the phone. You were full of uncertainty, anxiety and angst but EVENTUALLY you'd say 'I guess I just have to turn it over and let it go and trust that I've done all I can for now.'"
"Oh yeah!" I said. "You're right." I had completely glossed over last year's creation process remembering only the product, glittery and seamless in hindsight. But of course I had struggled my way through. Creating something is beautiful and terrifying and messy and uncertain.
It's always a process to let go, we agreed. Of course I just gave away The Language of Letting Go mediation book my son calls The Language of Hanging On because I've read it so many times. Luckily the second edition just arrived in the mail. Time to relearn what I already sort of know.