Twenty Four Hours

Playing on and off and on in my mind are the lyrics from Switchfoot’s song “Twenty Four”, because in the past twenty four hours, my life has been not what I thought it was, and the Spirit is taking me up in arms, flying my soul to new horizons, albeit tumultuously.

Last night, I was wide awake while Ray slept. I decided to open Sonia Choquette’s book The Power of Your Spirit, which I’ve been working through slowly, as I do with most spiritual books. She asks questions in each section thus far, prompting the reader to write the responses in his/her journal. The set of questions I answered last night triggered an earthquake in me. The earthquake climaxed in a heavy conversation with Ray, after I gently woke him. I never expected, when I lay next to him to wake him, that I would, in an hour or two be toppled into a mound of tears. I didn’t intend to start any heartfelt conversation.

The confessions were real and honest. I told him that I feel I can’t express myself freely all the time, especially when my ideas conflict with his. We both have noticed, we confessed, that we haven’t been as close. He so beautifully acknowledged my inherent need to create. I rocked the boat and told him I couldn’t go out on the jobs with him today, because I needed that time to create, to do what I am designed to do. So, I’m here still, writing.

I woke this morning after that strange night, weepy and uncertain. No decisions have been made about my relationship with Ray, but I have decided that I must follow my Spirit, and Ray encouraged this. I love him to death, and never want to leave him. I also must be me. I await to see the new normal for us. Through a conversation with one of my closest friends, I’ve decided not to help as much with his business; I may be spending a few hours per week in the office and working on reports, but not out in the field with him. I want to get back to our friendship, as it seems like business and other mundane talk have been our primary communications lately. I want to continue discovering me and my Spirit, while rediscovering us.

“Life is not what I thought it was twenty four hours ago. Still, I’m singing, Spirit take me up in arms with You. I’m not who I thought I was twenty four hours ago. Still, I’m singing, Spirit take me up in arms with You.”

Dreams Not Made

I regret that I did not seize my former days. I lament that I still have not learned to seize the one I’m dwelling in. I fear that my days to come will be left empty.

I fear being mediocre, in others’ eyes and my own. I fear I will never improve. I fear that I will always be average. I fear that I will always be a dream-chaser without any drive and without any results.

This infuriates me. Yet, I don’t know what to do.

My dreams are tall, and not all are unreachable. “You’re so young,” they say. But that will all fly by me, and I fear that in that small window of human-organized time, the small frame of years, and in the finiteness of human life, I will not accomplish something that satisfies me.

I try to exercise bravery, to press on and do things regardless of fear, so that someday soon the fears will be dissipated by experience. How am I to be brave now, today, when everything feels worthless? Small actions that accomplish small things, such as laundry or reading a chapter, feel like nothing. Surely they are worth something?

Why won’t my dreams propel me? I’m treading the snow outside, feet deep in my winter of discontent.

Bad Patient with Good Intent

About four or five days ago, I stopped my Zoloft cold-turkey. About two days ago, I started my own business as an independent consultant for Scentsy. Yesterday, I slipped my number into a significantly older man’s coffee warmer sleeve. 

In retrospect, I’ve been progressing quickly in life recently, and I hope it’s a good thing.

I’ll start with the psych meds: 

I was not tolerating the oversleeping anymore. Today I met with my psychiatric nurse, and she understood, having been a bad patient herself, and prescribed a low dose of Prozac, which should also help with my death-trap menstrual periods. This feels like a better fit, as Prozac is supposed to be less sleep inducing, being close equivalent with some of the lowest doses of Zoloft. 

On to Scentsy: 

A friend sells this adorable product line of scent holders and scents, including plush animal scent holders. The owl is too cute. She got me looped in without effort, because I see an opportunity to make extra cash to help me vacate my parents’ home and move into an apartment. A mutual friend of the Scentsy friend was sipping coffee with us the night I decided to join. She works for an apartment complex that rents cheap studios, utilities included. My meeting with them suddenly caused me to think that my life will soon sort out. 

It will. But I still have a little anxiety about investing in Scentsy. Will I be disciplined enough to sell enough to make enough? Will I make enough to land an apartment? Could I soon quit my job at the coffee house? 

The coffee house, where I gave a man nearly my dad’s age my number. 

He’s not someone I just met; William (we’ll call him that for now) and I have chatted several times when he comes in for his coffee. His gentle spirit draws me to him. I need that in my life. Additionally, he’s a spiritual intellectual like me. And oh the feels I feel when I see him nowadays. I realized about a month ago that I like him, and it was sudden, as I was talking to him across the counter.

It was difficult to give him my number, written on a guest check, with the following above my name: “Let’s talk physics, philosophy, and spirituality sometime. =)” I figure this was not too imposing. Two friends I work with know, and encouraged me all along. However, I didn’t serve him when he came in yesterday, as I was serving someone else. Plus, he was sitting with a guy he was studying something with, and I couldn’t just approach the table, slide the half-folded paper on the table slowly, then dash off with a giggle. Instead of his regular coffee, he bought a tea instead, anyway. However, before I dumped the decaf for the night, I asked if he’d want some. One of my coworkers went to ask, but I poured anyway after scrambling to place the note in the sleeve. 

He came to the counter before leaving, asking, “Is this for now or later?”

“Whenever,” I said while cleaning pots, turning to grin to myself.

The call hasn’t come yet, but I work tonight, and he’s likely to drop in. 

He’s much older than me, and I have had to smash my anxiety with rejection from him or high disapproval from my parents. But I’m attracted to him. If it becomes clear I’m compatible with this man, his age will not be an issue to me. Will my age be an issue to him? 

Will I be able to sort out the above possibilities, and other things I haven’t mentioned and don’t want to bore you with?

Ah, sweet mystery of this recent accelerated life! 

 

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I’m through accepting limits ’cause someone says they’re so. Some things I cannot change, but ’til I try, I’ll never know.

– Elphaba, “Defying Gravity”, Wicked the Musical