There are times when I just sit in overwhelm. Just sit. Accomplishing nothing, worrying about everything. Not sure how I manage to let so much pile up without tackling enough to keep it manageable, but here I am, again... feeling just a little panicky and out of control.
Had a phenomenal weekend with students at our cabin, and that's a great relief. I know it's pointless to worry about the weather, but last week even that was on my plate: How to Entertain 25 High Schoolers In A Thimble-Sized Cabin During Three Days of Relentless Rain. Try googling games for THAT. (Hey God, THANK YOU FOR SUNNY SKIES, BEAUTIFUL VISTAS AND INCREDIBLE SWIMMING HOLES!!)
That was a biggie and it's a serious relief that everything went so well. Time with students who are enjoying themselves (without sneaking around and trying to break every rule possible) is sooo enjoyable! Their fun becomes mine.
Yet.
Here I am, back in Atlanta, feeling the pressing gnaw of things undone, decisions unmade, responsibilities unmet.
The List (always in caps) laughs at me.
New (well, sorta new - I cashed her check three months ago and she reminded me of that today) client is waiting to connect about her manuscript and character development. I love her story and have been excited about working on it, so what's the hold up? I mean besides trekking around the country for the past three wunnerful months, doing exactly as I please, and having no time leftover to work? And then deciding to sell the house and every single thing in it, including the frames that held my pictures, to move to the tiny, remote cabin? THAT'S not a time suck, nosirree.
No stress there. Nope, none. Ha.
Then there's the newspaper interview I conducted last week with the local guy who wrote a book and needed coverage. Wasn't until I began reading his work that I discovered the "n" word liberally used. Sigh. How do I write a story I've been assigned about someone's book that I don't believe anyone needs to read?
And then there's Stephanie, my client who lost her son and is writing her way through her grief. I just read through the posts that she has written so far and they fill me with sadness for her and the son she lost, the boy I also miss. We need to make progress on her book, but this one has its own timing. Somehow the delayed pace seems sacred. She is feeling her way. Yet my job is to help her make progress on her book and that's getting nowhere fast.
The house. The yard sales. The clutter. The realization that even when all of that is behind me (us, but feels like me), there will still be the reality of a future unfolding on the side of a remote mountain where I'm often alone. (Again, marriage is supposed to be "us," but so often just seems like "me.") I know how poorly I'm equipped for life alone, though it's something part of me also craves. I'm always lonely there when I'm alone. Well, nearly always. I lose myself when I paint. And I do like some alone time. But the nights are endless. How will I change that?? Why am I the hermit who doesn't like to be alone?
I know I need to just fall on my knees and beg for rescue and forgiveness for not being more. Some days I'm just me and it doesn't feel like nearly enough.
