“Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.” ― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
there are those times when my sense of self blurs. i struggle with purpose and cannot remember the warmth of sunlight of spirit. the rhyme and reason and magic in the dance seem dim and dumbed and dull.
it is only a passing arc in the storyline, but history has proven that an arc such as the present one can downshift the engine or fully stall it out. that shouldn’t be such a great possibility with the winds of recovery puffing my sails.
i know this and yet i also feel the unsettling rocking rumble and stunning chill of this choppy part of my nature.
as i swim in this periodic dim, i question all the supports i have erected in life. there are echoes of ghosts and childhood fears of yet-to-be’s that dance in the dark of my mind like constellations.
life is certainly a dance filled with glory and with panache, but when there is a change in tempo, it sometimes requires more than footwork to find the beat. it requires listnening. so often i am too busy squawking to hear.
in case of emerency-
break the glass..
or just shut the door and go to bed.
Stages of Recovery
Stage 1: I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost. I am helpless. It isn’t my fault. It takes forever to find a way out.
Stage 2: I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don’t see it. I fall in again. I can’t believe I am in this same place. But it isn’t my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.
Stage 3: I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I fall in…it’s a habit…but my eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.
Stage 4: I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.
Stage 5: I walk down a different street.