My heart is a little heavy today. Grateful, but heavy. I suppose that the end of a truly restorative, rejuvenating vacation is often difficult. Although I was sensible of my heavy burden of stress, the many increased demands on my time and my coping skills, and my feeling of defeat and exhaustion, I didn’t fully appreciate how much I changed under that constant weight and the sometimes traumatic unpredictability of my life of late. I failed to recognize just how much more rigid I was reflexively thinking and behaving, my increasing negativity and perfectionism, and the all-or-nothing pattern to my thoughts. As I was departing, my nutritionist, Kendra, whose family also hails from the Boston area, remarked, “Oh, you’re just going home. What you need is a real vacation. Why aren’t you going to Florida?” For an instant, I worried that she was right, but as the reality of my escape settled upon me and the fatigue, anxiety, hopelessness, helplessness, desperation, and despair melted away, I recognized that I was precisely where I needed to be.
Excluding my two days of travel, I passed an almost idyllic week in my old bedroom, nestled among family and friends, waking every morning to the chorus of birds living in the woods behind the house where I grew up. I experienced the blessing of time and the peace of stillness. Mornings of yoga alternated with mornings of mass or rest. My mother and I ventured to the town pool one sunny afternoon to swim laps and then sit in the sun. I was glad for the moral support of another person to accompany me, and I might not have committed to the endeavor without her, but she caught me by surprise when she told me, “Thank you for making me brave.” Funny how courage reciprocates. I went for a bike ride, ate blueberries with milk and sugar, and watched the Red Sox (mostly lose) with my dad. I spent afternoons perusing little shops or simply relaxing at home, laying on the worn carpet with my eyes gently closed in mindfulness meditations, reading, writing, and coloring.
My ten-year college reunion was held during the final weekend of my trip. Revisiting my beloved, cherished alma mater, I reconnected with old friends and made new acquaintances, watched Elliot proudly and excitedly ride the pony at the picnic about a dozen times, spent a ridiculous amount of money on sweatshirts, t-shirts and greeting cards at the school bookstore, showered in the locker room before the fancy dinner, and ate the food(!). The old paths that I trod day after day were the same, with a few minor aesthetic improvements. In the main campus hall, I crossed the same worn, tiled floors that thousands of student feet traversed over the course of the past 170 years, I remembered who I was when I started to add my steps to that legacy. It was then, in this place, that the healing began to happen. I was confused, and I was grasping, and there were many painful experiences to follow, but I think that the connections I made, what I learned about God, the world, humanity, and myself, and the grace that I discovered enabled me to survive what was coming. As I sat in my favorite library, allowing the strong sun of June to filter through the prisms of cut glass in the ornate windows, my heart reflected on it all.
Recollecting the months leading up to my short respite, I am struck by how much I was overwhelmed, lost, and struggling. I expected so much of myself. The story that I told myself was one of inadequacy and fear. With increasingly limited time, accumulating duties at work, and mounting commitments, I felt trapped, stuck, and robbed of my free will. Unable to see a way out, I felt helpless, hopeless, and depressed. I lost my connection with myself. My blogging waned, my focus slipped, even my sleep grew restless and disturbed, and my sadness became tinged with despair. I tried vainly to convince myself, “It’s not so bad.” I attempted to remind myself of my successes, like attending a party, or eating out with friends, or the one night that I passed with my coloring books in relaxation. At the same time, I admonished myself for my shortcomings. Severely. My rigidity mounted and my to-do lists multiplied. Though I “accepted” that there was no way to accomplish everything, I was convinced that if I wasn’t reading (three books), blogging, journaling, drawing, coloring, praying, meditating, swimming, biking, practicing yoga, and keeping up with my various correspondences, I was not living wholeheartedly and all would be forsaken. I would not know joy, and I would not be fulfilled. Except, grasping after all of these goals left me gasping, choking, and drowning. In striving for my ideal, I found myself alienated from the wholeheartedness, joy, and fulfillment for which I longed.
The circumstances that I am returning to are unchanged. The only difference is the lingering bitter-sweetness of the deep tranquility that I enjoyed for those blessed eight days and the pang of connections strengthened, now stretched once more. If this is to be my place in life for the foreseeable future, how shall I then live? If the external factors are constant, the change must come from within. But I am scared. I am scared that I can’t do it, and I am scared of what will happen if I fail. So, I am taking a deep breath, and I am sighing OUT. I’m hiring a housekeeper. I’m putting all of my books back on their shelves and just choosing one. I’m contemplating throwing out all of my lists, but I’m not quite there yet. If I throw them out, they’ll just rattle around in my head, making me anxious, because it has yet to really sink in… I will never be able to do, accomplish, or achieve enough to prove to myself that everything is going to be OK or to eliminate from life its uncertainty. I will never be able to make myself a sufficiently good person. We are all flawed. I’m not going to fix that through diligent application and hard work. All I can do is ACCEPT my inability to control my future and ACCEPT my imperfections. Willingness. Letting go. I’ve been here before. I’ll be here again. It is scary. Deep breath.