Perhaps you missed me, perhaps not. I turned off my firehose of communication last week. Regimented checking of FB, blog stats even email was reduced to less than once every 24 hours. Nothing on my screen beckoned me to stay seated at my desk. I found no joy in perusing for something to inspire, skipping past all the cuteness overload videos and photos, deleting political missives without reading, dumping my junk mail box without a glance.
I took time off to remove the temptation to lurk; I chose to sit and ponder, postponing the trip up the stairs to my loft in favor of reading a good book in bed. My mind was tired and uninspired. I wrote, but for me, not for publication as in the days of journaling and letter-writing before the Internet.
I’m devoid of words, a desert landscape, holding emotions in check and negativity at bay. So much easier to turn to other’s words. To read and dissolve into another’s life, escape all but the parts of my own that bring joy and wellbeing. A chance meeting with a friend brought me a copy of the Swan Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova.
Worlds and lives and thoughts to slip into when things seem a tad overwhelming. Or perhaps it is underwhelming-ness that is causing me pain. The house hasn’t been shown in weeks, didn’t I say I was in no hurry? I am casting my net wider for my next career move. Where I live next is tied to what I will do for employment. The currents of change are merely eddying in a backwater bog. I need to feel control over some major part of my life, though I have only myself to blame for the current condition. It will bring growth, should my sanity survive.
John Irving brought me comfort in The Fourth Hand. I must confess, I lust after him both as an author and a male Adonis, Yet for some reason, I hadn’t taken the time to read anything beyond his early work. The World According To Garp, A Prayer For Owen Meany, Water Method Man, Hotel New Hampshire, Cider House Rules. He appeared in the store one busy Saturday during a cooking demonstration a couple of years ago. I was as dumbstruck as a girl in the 60’s seeing the Beatles. He dropped in briefly during the busiest point and I merely gazed across the room at him. I believe he was in town for a reading by his buddy and local celebrity PJ O’Rourke.
But I digress. The intensity of this particular phase demands I stop and give in to rest and reflection. Guilty, Irish Catholic that I am; this is not easily done. So last week I wrote just for me, just a journal, no stats to follow, no rules to break.
I’m strong but tiring. My goals and intentions are frayed. Have I been here before? Many times. I left a marriage and a life on the other side of the globe to come home and start over. Many years later I left a second marriage and family to strike out on my own. Now it is time to draw from those strengths and experiences to weather this turmoil.