It’s late at night and worries swirl around me like storm clouds – parenting dilemmas, work woes, grief from the ex, mistaken communications. So many things to set straight and so little time.
In the morning, I pull angel cards and runes and set time to contemplate and consider. And then I write. What comes out is … time, space, open for creativity, so needed.
And me, the way I process dilemmas is to talk about them. Except, I wonder, whom to call? Who wants to hear my worries and woes, when they have their own pinballing through the dark night?
It hits me then that with so many people around me and in my life, there are very few to talk to. I mean, really talk. When I mention this to my husband, he agrees. “It’s like, we get to the 40s and we’ve been so busy raising kids and working, that all the friends have disappeared. Where is everybody?”
He’s right. There are so many people all around, and so few to really pull close and pour out your heart to.
The real friends. Where did they go? Or do we just not have time for them anymore?
We make plans with couples and with colleagues. We meet for drinks or dinner, we fill our home with people we know for parties and celebrations.
And then the quiet descends. Who’s there to answer the phone? Who wants to know what bothers you late at night?
Or maybe the question is, should we be turning to others to process our emotions – or should we figure out ways to resolve them in our own quiet space?
I find that when I travel, when I have time and space with bright sun and open paths, I find answers. So perhaps the problem is not having that reservoir of time.
That blessing of a manageable schedule rather than a packed one.
How did we get here?
This morning, my daughter and I chatted about a few middle-school girls we know who’ve turned Emo. Formerly happy-go-lucky, light-hearted, happy girls who have become dark and depressed.
As a mom, I see childhood so differently now. Maybe 9 or 11 years of freedom and joy and unbridled discovery, which evolves into this time of awakening that becomes quiet and dark and sometimes scary.
And some people spend their lives there, never emerging into the light. Never gaining self-confidence or self-belief or the unbridled joy that this life CAN have.
I know. There are weeks when I feel like I sit in the pit of the earth, clawing at the clay-infused dirt to climb my way out.
And there are so many weeks when I see the sunrise every day as if for the very first time and stare in awe in the crisp morning at the unbelievable beauty of just being in this moment, this place, this life.
Is it society that morphs us from happy into anxious? Or is it an inevitable progression?
I can’t believe in the inevitability of darkness. I just can’t buy into it. I have to believe that it’s the joy and wonder and beauty that are so much bigger than the darkness.
The other day, my son and I, on the eve of his 14th birthday, talked about whether we could ever have a planet with no nations identified as evil. No North Koreas, no Irans, no muscle-rippled Russia.
No, he said. Without evil, we can’t truly know good. We need balance. It’s why day quietens into night and night blossoms into morning.
We have the extreme joy of a child being born, of falling in love, of pledging to live our lives alongside another person. We have the extreme joy of new clients and work promotions, books published and friendships blooming.
And we have the utter sadness of losing a loved one to illness or accident, a relationship’s demise. The sadness of clients departing, job loss, rejection after rejection, a friendship ending.
Vacations or quiet time wouldn’t be as precious if we didn’t have the balance of a busy week.
That dichotomy is life, apparently. I’m just not so sure the swing of extremes is as necessary as it seems.
I remember a Buddhist tale of a farmer who never says something is good or bad. A wild horse canters onto his property. His son rides the horse, falls off and breaks his leg. Because of the broken leg, his son is not drafted into the Army. All good. All bad. He sees it as simply life.