Saturday, October 30, 2010
At 1.00pm I stopped wallowing. And at 1.30pm I released. Nuri would have been proud.
The stone in my stomach became more manageable and I could taste the cup of tea.
The jangling zig zags of anxiety moths, moths as big as bats; flew out of my mouth and the nausea that lived in my throat was let loose.
I talk about choices all the time, but do I listen to myself?
To clear my head I emptied my pockets of all of the stuff that was leading me to Narcolepsy, inertia and intense fear. I put them on the table right here. This old oak farmhouse table. The one with the knife drawer. I was very careful to put the knives from my pockets and the drawer well out of reach.
Then I sorted all the stuff into piles so that I could see it all more clearly. It’s a bit like the junk drawer we all have in the kitchen. Although, unlike the junk drawer, I really do need to sort this stuff out.
When I looked at everything, it didn’t seem so bad. It was then I realised that I had begun to breathe again. Sometimes I forget and I have this big old weatherbeaten sigh sneak up on me and take my breath away, only in reverse.
I like to make lists and like the piles of unfinished business on the table, I need to look at things in order to understand. It’s like the different ways of learning. Apart from the Universe hitting me on the head with the same experiences repeated, I need to see what I have and what is missing. The gaping pieces from the jigsaw picture making it bleedingly obvious that it is the kitten’s ear or the orangey/red autumn leaf that is holding you back from completion.
Having somewhat identified first of all the pattern that I seem to be perpetuating, that of encouraging a certain uncertainty in my life, I could at least move on to what it is going to take to avoid this. Moving to Stockholm was my first thought. I don’t know why, I don’t like the cold. But I do love Stockholm. I fit in genetically. And I think it could suit me. I could learn to knit. Wrap myself up in long snakes of stripy woollen scarves. Trample through the cobblestones of the old city, Gamlestaan, and pretend I have always lived there. Wear matching woolly hats with pom poms and have my blonde braids sticking out of the bottom.
I do have a Viking fantasy. Being a Viking, I have told the Bright Young Things that when I die they must put my body on a raft, send me out to sea and shoot flaming arrows until I am nothing but fire on my way to Valhalla. That’s if Odin doesn’t get me first. I’m ok either way.
Other than moving to Stockholm, I may have to also consider staying here and actually doing something about these issues. As it’s late Autumn in the Northern hemisphere, I’m thinking to avoid the depths of a Nordic winter and all that snow, I might be better off embracing another wet season and just get on with it. You see, I told you no more wallowing.
With that in mind, I must clean up my mess, sharpen the knives (you never know when you are going to need them) and put everything back where it belongs.