Dear hearts,
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.
Enjoy Sunday.
With love
Miss Mich
