I said I would tidy up for the holidays. I didn't. Not exactly, anyway. I suppose I did tidy up my love life a little. All these months later, there are still remnants of it lying around, both metaphorically and literally, but I've done about all I can to deal with it in a compassionate way. All that's left is time to heal.
I said I would tidy up for the new year. I did, for a time, and I started to build some strong habits. Writing stuck the longest. It didn't feel like this enormous task, even when I don't want to do it at the moment. I just need a few minutes and suddenly I have an idea where there wasn't one before. I want to get to more creative posts, but I feel my best posts have actually all been tiny memoirs.
I said I would tidy up for spring. Now, here we are, about halfway through, and I've slid back further than I have maybe ever. What's the meaning of this? It seems like it's been raining nonstop. There's something about waking up to a gray sky that makes me feel completely subdued. But I realize I've been doing other things to shrink the amount of energy I have each day, like skipping breakfast and avoiding exercise. Mom tells me I'm no spring chicken anymore, and as always it makes me laugh.
She's right though. Thinking about the enormity of the task is not helping me. What have I given up in the shadow cast by this mess? The list grows longer everyday. But I'm happy I have friends that remind me that like spring, I'm in a season of transition, and I must be gentle with myself if I'm to heal. If I am to have rainbows, I simply must have the rain. What's summer without a few thunderstorms?