Today, I am having a difficult time getting my mind around the fact that it’s already Monday and the middle of June. I cannot possibly be in the middle. Of June. Of any month. I seem to crave the beginnings and dread the middle. Is this a mid-life crisis? Is that where my anxiety stems from?
I feel lost in it all and although I am working on patience, I find myself swearing (not at all like myself) and the only path before me seems to be that to the veggie garden, the bike path, or trails, which I run and hike. Not that these are negative paths. It is just being 46 and not wanting to be in the middle without a clear goal for future…
At least it is not Wednesday. The supposed middle of the week.
But a different future with a different job-slash-career that allows for a big bank account and more travel. And the spur of the moment purchases of retro-wooden-screen doors when nostalgic on weekends for the summer time slam. Or the strong desire for a sand box and swing set in the backyard.
Or a bank account-slash-savings that would allow me to retrain as a yoga instructor, or open that healing center.
I need to be at the beginning of that future.
(Small voice whispers that I am at the beginning of that future).
(Make a pot of coffee, come back to keyboard, and contemplate that beginning.)
Pause for station-identification.
My toes are cold from walking in the wet grasses in the garden where I took more photos today. And a touch of blue-sky ahs popped out over the yard and Lake Superior. Yesterday I told Mike I could see teaching yoga in the yard. That I would be doing some massage and energy healings in the studio upstairs. That’s part of what I have been working on in the mornings, clearing space in the studio and visioning a different future.
Sometimes it is good to work 3pm-11pm as it allows a world of possibilities before the “different” part of the day begins. But it puts a middle into things that causes a pause.
I don’t want to pause my dreams.
I want to live in them and make them happen without pause.
The pause between dream and working 3-11 and coming home to dream, again is not like getting a cup of coffee and wool socks and getting back at it. It is LONGer. It is less. Less. And it drains.
But I get back to here. The postal worker comes with the new photos. They will sell, I tell myself.
I get back to the blogging, writing, editing of words and photos. I get back to the gardens and the commitment to daily yoga. I get back to the healthy morning smoothies and the day I pattern until 3pm. I start to feel like MORE. MORE. More Me.
I count the days off work as major blessings. Or like miraculous events in which my creations must meet God’s creations and harmonize.
When at work I sing so God hears me and remembers that I need the miraculous to keep believing.
Have you been here?
Because sometimes I am so alone and in the middle-world.
Of middle month.
Of middle day.
Of middle life.
Like a record player stuck on the turntable repeating, repeating, repeating, I feel as if I am building to the next bar of music and I only remember the first three lines of the chorus and cannot launch into verse two.
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