"No one mentioned that I was only the steward of my own acre, that it was absolutely all I could maintain. And that perhaps it needed some psychic potting soil, and a watering system; and that contrary to what my parents and teachers had taught me, I did not need to grow perfect, alphabetized rows of salad vegetables, or a festive English garden on which I might hold teas and clinics. I could grow what I longed for; for what fed ME."
--Anne Lamott
Life right now feels like fifteen free-spinning, red balls, up in the air. Circling round and round. Only I am not the juggler, tossing them up. I am also one of the balls. I catch a glimpse of something I'm doing, I focus for mere seconds before the force, the whirl, the spin, takes me away again. My eyes dart from thing to thing, spreading my attention like an oscillating sprinkler--not too much, just a little at a time.
Things feel out of my control, set on their own predetermined trajectories, held by the laws of physics instead of choice or force or movement. Like a ride at the fair. The teacups that spin around and around and all you do is sit. And hold on. And feel a little nauseous.
I know that it is a season. That the busyness will subside. That the events and the hormones and the circumstances will ebb and flow, and one day I will feel my feet back on the ground. I will stand beside the one that tosses up the balls, who makes the balls, who keeps them up or lets them fall. And I will watch two or three or four fall to the floor and roll slowly away. And maybe I'll come down, too. Out of my anxiety and fear and multi-tasking. Maybe I will fall and see that I am not as necessary as I thought I was.
--Anne Lamott
Life right now feels like fifteen free-spinning, red balls, up in the air. Circling round and round. Only I am not the juggler, tossing them up. I am also one of the balls. I catch a glimpse of something I'm doing, I focus for mere seconds before the force, the whirl, the spin, takes me away again. My eyes dart from thing to thing, spreading my attention like an oscillating sprinkler--not too much, just a little at a time.
Things feel out of my control, set on their own predetermined trajectories, held by the laws of physics instead of choice or force or movement. Like a ride at the fair. The teacups that spin around and around and all you do is sit. And hold on. And feel a little nauseous.
I know that it is a season. That the busyness will subside. That the events and the hormones and the circumstances will ebb and flow, and one day I will feel my feet back on the ground. I will stand beside the one that tosses up the balls, who makes the balls, who keeps them up or lets them fall. And I will watch two or three or four fall to the floor and roll slowly away. And maybe I'll come down, too. Out of my anxiety and fear and multi-tasking. Maybe I will fall and see that I am not as necessary as I thought I was.
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