Vacillations

I am swinging from an almost euphoric feeling of well-being and rightness and gratitude to overwhelm and exhaustion and resentment at all that there is to do - ALWAYS - so much to do that never ends. But of course it doesn't. So why be mad at what IS and not change how I react to what is? That is, I realize, what I can actually control.

And sometimes, I can. And I breathe. And I settle my shoulders. And I let a smile creep back onto my face. And I let myself feel the well being that is here for me when I settle myself long enough to hear it. 

And then I blink and move and check off another task. And feel good for a moment until I remember that there's another one. And another one. And then the cycle starts again.

Is this middle life? Trying to be okay with who you are, your failings, your shortcomings, what you will never get better at? 

Brene Brown says so. (And here let me pause to say how much I want a guru, a teacher, a wise one whose lap I can crawl into and ask for a story - one with a moral that will help me make my next choice and make it a good one.)

And generally, I do like myself, when I see myself more holistically and less through judgment, which tends to only be slivers and facets, shadows and fractions of me. Me in moments and not me over the course of multiple rooms, multiple days, multiple contexts. 

I wish I were more calm. More generous. I feel sometimes that my homebody hunkering down means I don't have much to share with others. Maybe I should find more ways to be there for people I love. To be open to connection. That feels hard. I'm reminded of the image of Ernie hammering planks from the pirate ship to the shore. How tenuous that felt. The miracle of leverage that held until his friend was safe. I'm not sure I trust that for myself. 

And I don't know what I am becoming. I forget that there is no arriving. That where I am, I cannot stay, even if I do learn to love myself and where I am. 

I had a dream the other night of a long-lost love. In the dream, I had another chance to fall into his arms, into the black hole that was our connection and our love. I felt myself want to trap him, keep him, fall into us and lose myself. Awake, I think it felt easier than walking my own path. Continually looking for and finding and then looking for myself. 

My search for poets I can love and poems I can learn from feels like that, too. Like I'm looking for a shortcut, an easier way to wisdom. Like I'm running from my voice, because what if I don't like what I have to say? Or what if I have nothing to say?