Worrying.

It was a pretty amazing weekend last weekend here in Tenuver land.

Friday night, I might have cut out of work just the weensiest bit early. Then, I had a cook-a-thon with myself that involved making two fontina, leek and asparagus quiches and one enormous potato, kale and feta frittata. I’m starting to get the hang of this whole egg-dish thing. Saturday was devoted to cupcake eating and to welcoming an almost-hatched new baby of a dear friend — a little girl I couldn’t be more excited to meet. There was also a walk to Gasworks, where Seattlites go to give thanks to the Sun Gods for taking an early shift on what we hope will become their full time job in a few months. In the evening, there was much shouting and beer-drinking as I watched my first derby matches. (The only low part of the night was that I still haven’t quite developed those special PBR tastebuds just yet. I fear that putting this in writing forever outs me as truly unhipster; yet, if I’m being honest with myself, the lack of jeggings might have been a good tip off.) Derby was the perfect salty pairing with the sweetfest of the morning. Lots of swearing and fighting and pushing and glitter ensued — all the sorts of girly things that I desperately approve of. Sunday was sleeping in and lazy brunch, followed by 2+ hours of hiking at Discovery Park – which was appropriately blustery and sunny. Famished, we split a burger (my 1st in 15 years!), a strawberry shake and fries at The Counter, went home for naps and chowder making, and reading on the couch under a cozy blanket with slipper on. Really, it was perfection.

Laying in bed on Sunday night after this wonderful weekend, we were in sleepover mode. Chatty and giggling at the good luck of our weekend, we were quite content to lay in the dark and ask each other deep questions.  There is something about a perfect weekend that makes one wonder deep thoughts, and there’s something about being in the dark that is just begging for secrets to be told with abandon.

We talked about a lot of things: of course the was our ever-favorite topic, our desired menu for the week (perhaps something with lemongrass?). But we also discussed when we thought BBQ season might officially start, how we missed the comfort of good friends living close, and what a strange realization it is to love your family and friends dearly but know that there are some with whom you may never share the same values (and vice versa). And then Garrett got a bit quiet. He was thinking about something, I knew. I hoped it wasn’t work, which is what it usually is around this time of night on a Sunday.

But he asked me, “What do you worry about?”

It was a question that caught me off guard, that I almost immediately laughed off, or changed the subject, or started a pillow fight, to avoid. I’ve been known to do some worrying in my day. In fact, I’m sort of a Grand Champion of worrying. I might be able to earn international prizes for the amount and the breadth and depth of my worrying. There was a point in time this autumn, where I actually, very briefly, saw the edge between worry and complete inability to run your own life, the brink of OCD, the cliff that once you fall over, weighed down by anxiety and doubt, you probably spend years climbing out of.

I didn’t actually get close enough to the edge to look over, I just saw it, dark and groaning, in the not-so-far-off distance. Even the shimmering glimpse of it shook me. And then I shook myself. For a pretty practical woman, I sure can be a hell of a basket case at times. I can spin and spin and spin on ideas and worry and what if’s, but this time, like the times before, I shook myself into a moment of clarity. Sometimes that clarity has been a disappointing clarity where I realize that I can’t do it all. But, in general, the clarity reminds me that it’s all ok and that life is in general, a pretty good place.

And with that realization I can slowly start walking away from the edge. The farther away I get, the more the fog lifts, and all of a sudden I notice that I’d been walking all hunched over, tired and worn down and heavy, straining my neck to see what all is “out there”, looking for that thing that I know will save me, if I could only remember what it looked like. I notice that I’d been walking so twisted and contorted because all of a sudden my spine feels straight and strong, and I’m able to look out along the horizon AND I’m able to look down at my feet, noticing the sparkling stones and pebbles and teeny insects and flowers that I’d been missing previously. Along the horizon, the rain clouds look like welcome relief instead of impending doom. The wind blows a gentle breeze, not the first gusts of a hurricane. The sun is warm, not parching, not the beginning of a drought.

I’ve been to those cliffs before, and somehow, thankfully, I always turn back. Sometimes, like this time, its just in the nick of time. Sometimes I watch myself moving towards the cliffs like I’m watching a movie. I can see myself running, frantically, looking for something, twisting and jerking my head in all directions, trying to find answers, and faith, and grace, and tenderness, and relief, and hope, and yes, of course, happiness. I look ridiculous, but I can’t stop myself. I’m like some spastic animal going into fits. I look pathetic, truly sorrowful, obviously in need of calm and gentleness and a quiet breath, but that would just be wasting time now, wouldn’t it? I can feel myself running, trying to sprint, thinking that maybe the faster I go, I’ll be able to trick the answers that I’m looking for into sticking around this time, instead of teasing me and slipping through my fingers just as I reach them. Or maybe those things that I thought were answers were just tricks placed there in my path to trip me up, to break my focus. Everything is suspicious.

Maybe I need to start over again? From the beginning. Maybe that’s the trick. Maybe if I meticulously recount my steps, I’ll see where I went wrong. I’ll see that diamond that I missed before, that jewel of an answer gleaming in the sand that I’m digging my toes into, my fingers into, sifting, and finding still only sand. So I run again. And it’s like running through mud. No, not mud. Mud is dirty enough, but much too organic; it’s potential earthiness somehow alludes to healthiness, and that’s not the kind of thing I’m running through. Don’t people bath in mud for its healing properties? Don’t kids splash joyfully in mud puddles with impish grins on their angel faces? No, not mud. I wish it WAS mud. Dirt and I are such good friends; please let it be mud. But no, there’s nothing quite that kind or familiar along this journey.

Maybe jello. Maybe these fits are like running through some enormous wall of jello. You can feel your slow progress, but your forward momentum is also  your greatest enemy. The more you push, the faster you try to move, the more you realize that it could spring back upon you, that you might just get bounced back out again, like a rubber band/catapult/slingshot — all in one. But you’re really really sure that if you can just get through to the other side, you’ll find it. So you push some more. The effort is similar to a bouncy castle, which always promises to be fun, and then after the first 30 seconds, you realize your leg muscles don’t understand how to work in this new environment, your heart is pounding, your breathing is wheezy and weak. This isn’t fun at all. You have the early stages of vertigo, you’re sort of nauseous, and you just got “accidentally” whacked in the boob by someone’s flailing arm as they hurtled themselves against the wall that you’ve taken some kind of momentary shelter next to. So you get out, and take a deep breathe and you realize you’re just fine with the grass, thank you very much. No more bouncy castle! But here, you can’t just step out of the castle and across the drawbridge and onto terra firma. Jello doesn’t have drawbridges. There’s nothing “firma” about it. This jello is all unsettled and unsettling. And it’s suffocating. You try to hold your breath, but before you can stop it, your mouth and nose is filled with the gluey chemical sweetness, and you can’t help but gag. And your eyes… your lashes are sticking together, your lids are gummy. You can see a bit, but only enough to be overwhelmed by the florescent brightness and to know that whatever it was that you’re looking for isn’t directly in front of your face, because that’s as far as you can see. You begin to think this wasn’t such a smart adventure of “self exploration” after all. You want to yell, “No more Jello!” but you realize that if you open your mouth, Jello is exactly what you’re going to get.

This fall, I was trying to decide what to “do with my life”. I seem to go through these fits of discontentment and manic questioning about, oh, once every 4-6 months. Hooray. What an exciting “opportunity”. I’ve heard, “It’s totally normal to go through…” about a million times, but that is a platitude that falls on painfully tired ears. Blah, blah, blah. Normal? Perhaps. But it’s also a good way to go briefly and absolutely bonkers. No gracias. I mean, I know growth comes from pain and struggle, (again… blah, blah, blah) but… can’t we just skip all that? Honestly. Who wants it? And why haven’t we created some pill for this type of malady. Am I too much of an obvious embodiment of my generation if I say that I just want to skip straight to the good stuff already? I do not think of this question as an “opportunity”.  At least, it certainly didn’t feel that way when I was in the middle of it. To the claims of “opportunity”, I call a big ol’ “bull shit” on.

Questioning one’s purpose and path in life is like being forced to wear someone else’s itchy horrible underwear that are too tight and too big at the same time. Uncomfortable doesn’t even start to describe it. You feel like peeling off your own skin just to get away from it. I mean, all that this is teaching me is to buy my own goddamn underwear, in a nice spandex/cotton blend. Briefs. Nothing with lace. Nothing with bows. Nothing with teeny strips of fabric that get embed themselves in unmentionable places. Nothing with fabric that gets within 4 inches of my belly button. But perhaps this metaphor lacks a little when you follow it to its conclusion. I mean… undies I can be decisive about. My life, not so much.

But then, the storm passes. The cliffs of insanity (nice reference eh?) are in the far far distance. A collective sigh of relief goes up among the masses. My friends and family are ever so thankful not to have to listen to me pontificate and whimper about the endless possibilities and opportunities that I’ve been gifted with. In fact, I’m thankful not to have to listen to me any more as well. (These conversations surely amount to annoyingness topped with irrational lack of gratitude and perspective, sprinkled with irreverence a nice cherry of complete disassociation with reality plopped on top. Woe is me.)

What follows is a period of mourning for the fact that I will no longer be lost in the weeds (damned if you do, damned if you don’t, right?), for at least in the weeds, there was possibility of miracles lurking. Out of the weeds, unicorns and rainbows don’t exist… but luckily, neither do the monsters that were hiding under the bed. The decision has been made (in my case, the decision was not to go to grad school… this year at least). So I take a few quiet moments of mourning for the life I decided not to pick (for now). (Notice all my hedging. It’s very healthy, I know.) And then, I sort of just got the hell on with things.

And life has become rather lovely. A very real weight has been lifted. I’m a new woman. I’m not quite Pollyanna, or that lovely maid in the Sound of Music spinning her way across the alps, but close. There’s a sense of calm and contentment now. There’s very little that feels like plodding through jello, very little that is painful or difficult. I even strut a little bit. “I have MADE A DECISION!” Hands on hips. Cocky glance across the room. Rakishly adjust mirrored sunglasses. Very authoritative. Very cool. Very hip. (Well, let’s not get carried away.) Very grown up. Oh yes, very. (Pay no attention to the knocking knees.) Yes, I strut. I have no cares in the world. Perhaps too few cares in fact. I’m bordering on total disregard. I’m selfishly doing whatever the hell I want. And sometimes, the dishes just stay in the sink for three days. Take THAT!

And merrily I float along. It’s not quite the great high I’d been looking for, but the pattern of contentment is very pleasant and a general fog of happy/lazy/laizze faire-ness has started to float over me; I like it quite a lot. Things are really just fine. Good even. Some days, great. It’s not a confusing fog. I can see things quite clearly. It actually feels just a little bit drugged. Like maybe this feels too good. Like maybe if I started poking around a little bit, the pain would still be there, somewhere, but I don’t care so much. I’m observant, I’m present, but I’m not fighting it. I’m not going to be stupid enough to start poking around again. Not just now.

The flow is a good thing, and I’m in it. There’s a steadiness to this place that I like. A solidness that feels a bit unfamiliar and rich and I’m sucking up every last drop. I realize that flux and transition has been my steady state for a long time, and here I am in almost a boring lull, and I love it. Dinner at home every night. Work, but not so much that it disrupts me. Not so much that I even need to mention it. Oh, there are so many more interesting things to talk about. Sous vide for instance. Or things I might plant in my someday-garden. And there are books to read. So. Many. Books. And maybe on occasion I step out with a friend. It’s lovely… but not essential, not at the moment. I felt like I’d been holding onto friends and family for dear life; clutching at them for answers and support. And now I’m able to be with them gently, without so much need. Just a friendly cup of tea. Just a nice walk around the lake. Just a few rounds of Settlers. Oh, so civilized we are. Isn’t this nice and cozy and friendly? But mostly, I can be by myself for a while. It’s ok. I’m not as scary as I used to be. I don’t go into some crazy tailspin of self doubt whenever I look in the mirror. I no longer need a hand to hold every moment. I’ve got projects to do dammit! Holding hands is lovely, and I think you’re amazing, but… really people… there is bread to bake!

So, when Garrett asked me “What do you worry about?”

It took me by surprise. This was a question we’d asked each other a thousand times. Perhaps a thousand thousands of times. It’s a hearty topic of debate while traveling, and while contemplating one’s future, and when consumed by work or other traumatic duties — a general description of my last 10 years. So, why – WHY? – was I so surprised by this question?

And then there was this shocked moment – this quiet moment of complete disbelief – when I realized that it was perhaps the first moment in a very, very, VERY long time when this question was difficult for me to answer.

I wanted to belt out “Hallelujah”! (Or perhaps “Eureka!”)

It may not last for long. Hell, even just writing this, writing anything really, might be the pinprick in my balloon. But you know what? Life is damn good right now. And, I think that’s worth a nice self-congratulatory high five to myself. It’s probably the quietest my life has been in a long time. Our social calendar has a few blips and beeps, but it’s not frantically festive. Work is fine. Plugging along. Good people, good balance. Not as much balance as I’d like, but the best balance I’ve had in a long time; perhaps ever. Actually, ever. Definitely. And the home front is just darn content.

I struggled a lot with “contentness” as a theme while I was wondering my way through the jello. Contentment felt like giving up. It should be AMAZING ALL THE TIME, right? Whoa… slow your roll, little sister. Let’s get you down off that sugar high. Contentment feels amazing actually… perhaps not SCREAMING-AT-THE-TOP-OF-MY-LUNGS amazing, but lovely; like a calm canoe floating down stream, no rapids even possible on this gentle trip, trees branching out over the water giving you dappled shade, a summer breeze, warmth. You can close your eyes and lay back, feel the almost imperceptible-but-there rocking of the boat, see through your closed eyes the flickering warmth of the sun through the leaves. It feels easy. It feels right.

It feels like watching a spotted eagle ray swim under your hut, which is what we were doing… a year ago today.