Blog-Along, Day 4. September 4, 2017
I’m getting this done at 10:30pm, because I said I would, dammit!
I’m scanning my day, looking over it for something of import to write on.
I realize, I don’t have any complaints other than being tuckered out.
If there’s an impulse to write, for me, it’s usually to explore something I’m wrestling with, some struggle or worry, a knot I’m trying to untie.
The truth is, I feel better than I have in years.
My kids–wild, unruly, unconventional and independent–are okay.
My finances, after years of being unable to even imagine ends meeting, are in a good place. I realize that’s relative and what I live on comfortably is far, far less than what others think is necessary.
I’m not suffering from depression and I’ve done a pretty thorough job of eliminating people and situations that trigger my PTSD.
I’m doing what I love. It’s a wild, busy, happy, chaotic, breathtakingly beautiful ride.
My time is my own to schedule as I like. I’m learning to assure my calendar includes social time, exercise, creative endeavors. There are stretches that are nutty-busy and some that are quietly fallow. But, that’s purposefully planned. It’s not happening to me, but because that’s how I engineered it.
I go to bed and rise when my body tells me to.
I eat what my body tells me to–sometimes that means half a bag of Pepperidge Farms cookies. Sometimes it means salad for days on end.
I set appointments with students and classtimes when it works for me.
And, it feels strange. It feels boastful to write that out. It feels like challenging the Fates. It feels like bullish braggery.
But, I’m writing it anyway. I’m saying it out loud. I’m daring to own, fully, how far I’ve come along this journey.
The world is a freaking disaster of fire and flood, anarchy and authoritarianism, poverty and obscene wealth, division and healing, heartache and deep love . . . all at once.
But, here I stand. And I’m okay. I’m not trying to fix, work on, change or heal anything in my life. I’m not working toward some distant goal.
I’m here. Present. This might be what liberation feels like. Hell, this might be liberation.
After decades of self-work, I’m taking this moment to breathe. I surveying the results of my incessant labor. It feels damn good. And, I’m not ashamed to say so.
Tomorrow, I may discover a knot to untangle. But, tonight, I’m giving thanks.