Back in October I made a decision. It was such a good decision. And it changed, for the better, the direction of my life. There has not been a moment since that I have regretted making it. I have feared that it might lead to failure, only to then remind myself that failure is sometimes a trick of the eye (or how we choose to define it). And so I have put one foot in front of the other, so sure that whatever I was moving towards, was better than standing still--and I have stood still for far too long (see: fear). And for the first few months, my decision was directional. I had tasks and lists and boxes to check. But then came the waiting. Which I always knew was going to come, and I always knew I wasn't going to like. But it was necessary--a part of the process. The waiting to find out. The great, big, gaping unknown. And sitting in unknown has never really been...well, you know, a thing that I'm good at.
Years ago, in a funk--when funks were more often than not--I went to see Tom. And Tom pointed out that the funks seemed to show up whenever my life lacked movement. When things felt still, settled, unyielding.
I crave movement. All. the. time.
Which brings us back to this moment, right now. This moment where the directionality of my plan (and life) is purposefully on pause, and I don't yet know what will come next. In some ways, the fact that I am breathing, at all, is a miracle. And yet, I know I will look back on this time, years from now--minutes from now, even--as nothing short of miraculous. Holy even.
That being said, there was a morning last week--probably the morning after I'd congratulated myself on not falling down the rabbit-hole of old habits--that I did not want to get out of bed. (God was I good at sleeping through depression). And as I lay in bed, a small, slow panic settling in, there came a thought: movement.
I may not be able to move mountains today, but I can fake the feeling. I can create literal, physical, actual movement.
So I sat upright and got to work. I tasked myself with five things to do before noon (which is, still to this day, some of the best advice I've ever received), and I created physical movement around me. I turned on the small fan I keep in the corner to get some air circulating. I stripped the bed of the sheets and started a load of laundry (actual, physical, circular movement). I took a shower, washed my hair, swiped on some perfume--some lipstick, too. I watered the plants, making sure something would grow on this day. I lit a candle, watched it flicker. I ran a vacuum over the rug, and then I turned on the music just a bit too loud, and gave thanks for it all. The mess and frustration and stillness and movement and this very holy season.
And the funk moved right on by.