Woke Anxious, Walked To Work

This morning I woke anxious, afraid. I read the news and moved toward panic. What if he steals the election? What if no one stands up to him? What if this is the end?

I sound paranoid, pathetic, whining like a child, but that's how I felt this morning. That's the accurate reporting of the beginning of my day.

Then I walked to work listening to a podcast. Two wise people counseling me, prompting good thinking in me. I walked two miles across town one step at a time.

At the office I poured a cup of cold water and sipped, turned on the air and wiped my sweaty brow, unpacked my bag and sat at the desk to begin my day's work.

I'm still worried. I'll admit that. But I have work to do. In three months I'll vote. I'm giving money to candidates in whom I believe. I'm writing these words. I'm sipping the water and have walked across town listening to smart people offering help. And I'm starting in on the work needing to be done. Good work that will help others.

And help me. To believe. To hope. To keep going.

Good Night

A terribly hot evening. I shoot baskets in the driveway. But it's really hot. I go sit in the backyard, read a book, sweat on the pages. Eventually, I shower, the water turned all the way cold. Drying off, I see myself in the mirror. Hey, I know that guy.

Downstairs I set the laptop on the coffee table before the seat between the speakers. I slide a record from its sleeve. Pat Metheny Group's Offramp. I place it on the platter, clean it, drop the needle, and turn the volume up two notches.

On the couch, I respond to email from friends. Hey, I write. How are you? Here's what's doing with me. Pat Metheny Group asks, "Are You Going With Me?". I certainly am.

The window air conditioner rattles cool air across me left to right. My friends' words rise from the screen and pass through me. My thoughts tap out of my fingers. The kitten attacks. Music plays. I open a blank page on the computer and write these thoughts. The sun sets slowly. The heat comes down a degree. Storms arrive tonight. More heat tomorrow.

The dog comes to see me, her panting tongue lolling from her smiling mouth. I smile back and say, "it's a good night, isn't it?" We both know the answer.

Those Mornings

It's one of those mornings. Hot and humid already, yet still climbing. Not much sleep to be had last night. The morning started with conflict and acrimony. Yesterday had too much of that too. And there's lots of work to do.

But none of that makes this one of those mornings.

It's one of those mornings because I'm feeling I can't read enough of what I need to read, learn enough of what I need to learn, or do enough of what I need to do. At work for an hour, I feel I've done far too little.

Why the hell am I writing instead of doing all that stuff?

Thanks for asking.

Here's the thing: it's one of those mornings because I've chosen to feel certain ways about things. The conflict and acrimony this morning? I've chosen to hang onto it, feeling wounded instead of compassionate. That's a poor choice indeed. The conflict yesterday? I've chosen to carry it into today. The lack of sleep? It's not so bad and it's good reason to make a spectacular cup of coffee. The heat and humidity? My office is air-conditioned.

I'm writing to change perspective, to orient myself back to the path on which I do what I need to do, learn what I need to learn, read what I need to read. Writing brings me back. Maybe you go for a run or meditate or sing in the car. I write and a couple hundred words later how do I feel?

Like it's going to be one of _those_mornings.

The kind of morning in which I stop every so often and breathe, in which I remind myself of choices I've made and choices available to me. The kind of morning in which I write a return to my body, mind, and spirit, a return to the path. The kind of morning in which I find myself ready now to ask what's next and then go do it.

It's one of those mornings. The good kind.

Maybe Just Go

You wake and have plans. Sure you do. You write pages of words that would feel like nothing if you didn't know better. Quit your whining, you tell yourself. In the workshop, you apply another coat of poly to a project and wash the brush in thinner. The laundry tub could do with a bit of a scrub. You scrub it but just a bit. You go upstairs thinking you might go for a run. But the cat insists you pick her up. She purrs. You scratching that purring cat. Summer heat is rising. Bugs whir like tiny machines. You move in and out of the world, the whir and purr bringing on a trance. Then the cat has had enough of you. She jumps down. You pull on running shorts and shirt. You take yourself out into the heat, stand in the driveway, the world before you. Infinite choices of direction and distance. The map of who you are and might be. You stand, trying to choose right or left, as if it matters. As if anything matters other than putting a foot forward, bringing the other along, and so on and so forth. You can have your plans, write your words, coat a project in poly, hold the cat while she'll let you, and stand in the driveway forever, but it's getting so very hot, the world is moving on with or without you. Maybe just go. No, really. Go.