There’s every opportunity to write this now and I am waffling. It’s work time and yet, it’s also this wide-open quiet that calls to me and suggests a giant blank canvas almost surrounding me. Out of the sky fall all sorts of markers and paints and crayons and such a well of creativity that it’s hard to ignore.
Have to, though, and keep checking my email.
Another thing that the therapist and I talked about yesterday (yesterday feels a thousand years ago) is mindfulness. I have heard about this before. It does help to focus on the moment at hand. What can be done right now rather than what the past was or what the future might be. Perhaps I am being so mindful that it was mentioned in yesterday’s post and I no longer recall outside of an eerie state of deja dit?
I got some work done that needed doing. One of those things that has no specific timeline, just needs regular doing and I made myself finish it. Figure it out and do it as correctly as I can think to do it.
I can’t help with certain problems that plague us, but I can at least busy myself with keeping this as organized as I may. Maybe that’s a byproduct of feeling better in general. I don’t know. I want empty folders. I want things done, knocked off the list, completed.
The sky is overcast. Nearly all of May thus far has been rainy and indicative, in some way, of the general mood. A season of non-starters, however, I don’t know why, but I feel a bit hopeful. This is not being so mindful – looking ahead – but maybe that just speaks to how hard I find it to stay in my head, in my body, in the world as it is just at this very moment. We keep on glancing askew and aside.
I keep starting sentences I can’t finish. Ideas that trail off and become dust on the floor of my brain. I think that was the thing that made me tear up the most yesterday. My inability to finish anything I start. It’s not that I want this to be perfect, I just want it to be better than I’m willing to spend energy on it, or seemingly, capable, of making it.
It’s nice that I don’t…obsess over it. I do open the inbox, the joke that I thought was a shield of humor before I fell on the other side of the punchline. I don’t re-read the letters because it would make me feel things that are just like these half-formed thoughts: directionless, open-ended, tailings of processes that can’t be capped, can only overrun. We can’t start the machine of the heart back up again. Even if I think there were some elegant turns of phrases, ruts I’d like to walk back down. Crushed as I might be, catching these anvils is not going to get me hung up in the firmament.
I’m just a lady with some time.