I feel so stuck. My writing is stuck. My life is stuck, and in an out-of-control cyclone at the same time. I'm in a hurry, but to nowhere.
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There's something that's beginning to eat away at me. I like spending my time reading, meditating, on my yoga mat, practicing reiki, and with whatever other tools feel right for growing a life of love. But despite following these enlightening practices, there is a black hole that continues to stalk me.
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I still don't feel like writing about anything else. The recent death in our family has taken over everything. I am constantly thinking about my loved ones, even more than I always have, consumed with thoughts of helplessness, mourning, and guilt.
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When something unbelievable happens, something tragic and heartbreaking and unexpected, there are no words that exist to describe how shattered we feel.
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E. E. Cummings really nailed it with this line, because being a writer terrifies me.
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My yoga practice forte reveals itself when the sequences resemble a dance, having fluid ongoing transitions, always moving forward. But when it comes time to hold a pose, to sit with myself in an uncomfortable place for so long, I struggle.
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Silence perpetuates violence, and it is about time we raised our voice.
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I felt a sting of selfishness stab into me for a long time, knowing that I'm not satisfied with merely being "happy" in life. What kind of ungrateful being was I, to be blessed with a job I love, a caring family, supportive friends, and still feel like something so dark and empty hid within me?
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"Working" means exchanging your time for money to buy the stuff you need. With some luck, we all hope to find a job where we don't despise every click of the minute hand. With a ton of luck, we hope for a career where we feel rewarded.
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I've been hit over the head with some emotional sledgehammers this week, and while I felt all of the stress zooming around my brain like a passenger to Earnhardt Jr., I didn't know how to deal with it. Thankfully I've learned that distracting myself and pretending all is hunky-dory will get my healing nowhere.
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What is the purpose of life? What is my own life's purpose? Aren't we all just a bunch of dirt piled together that's just, for better or worse, become aware of our own existence?
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We can often become so wrapped up in obtaining the things we want, that we forget to take a step back and remember to appreciate what we already have.
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My whole life I was blessed with what we all thought was a natural lifestyle. The reality is that many of the seemingly harmless products and habits we grew up with are now being exposed as toxic, unsafe, or even deadly.
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Talking about my body makes my skin crawl. It's crippling to spiel about my physical traits and the seemingly endless battles I had with them. I think the word I am looking for here is vulnerable.
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No matter how much we adore our hobbies, the temptation of lazy hours in front of the TV or social media can still trump our natural drive to run with our passions.
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Most of the time I at least attempt to find the silver lining, the laughter in the darkest moments to remind me that even though it hurts right now, this darkness will pass and there is sure to be a light up ahead.
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It's a real mood-killer, but we all do it. When we look around at others and witness their ability to accomplish our goals with more ease or with less heartache, it makes us wonder what we are doing wrong.
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We can invest so much energy sheltering ourselves from pain that we gamble away our ability to feel anything at all.
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Okay, I'm giving in. I'm ready to entertain the possibility of a grand adventure.
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I strive for a life of peace for all, but I am human. Despite my attempts to radiate positive energy, the truth is that quick-to-react garble has been flying out of my mouth too much lately.
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