My left eye is twitching. Right now. Been happenin' for days. There are only two times in my life that I recall having an eyelid spasm -- during the MFHS boys' basketball run to the State Championship of '07 (hubbie's the coach, and life became a psychotic, blessed chaos), and immediately following the 2010 earthquake in Haiti . . . Of course, the quake also brought severe insomnia, weight loss, excessive irritability, and countless other trauma markers shared by hundreds of adoptive parents across the U.S. The months (year) following brought a transition to migraines, which have since subsided, thankfully.
The spastic flap of skin in front of my sight is presently sign of "too much." There are times that one's "normal" tasks and undertakings overwhelm, and presently, several areas of my life (while going well) have somewhat unexpectedly demanded more -- a lot more -- and simultaneously so. Too much is too much.
An overpriced, steaming hot, sweet and creamy, venti (decaf) cinnamon dolce latte at lunch on Wednesday and another that evening -- yes, two in one day -- presented as secondary symptom that I am in need of some time for self.
Skim.
Regular syrup.
With whip.
And reality is clearly relative. Babes "lost" in Haiti post-quake versus over-extended daily life. Seriously? And yet, the nervous system has it's limits. Living a trauma doesn't expand one's capacity to live at an unhealthy pace. It has, however, made it a slight bit easier to let go.
Having gone to a hell and back has lent to me some grit and courage to decide, to speak, to breathe.
And on a brisk, dark night, overcome by a fog of exhaustion, I choose myself. The piles of scrap papers and post-its remain in a stack, untouched. My tote of ungraded tests, and list of not-yet-contacted guest speakers waits. Receipts and bills stay piled in their respective labeled boxes upon the shelf while popcorn scraps and dog hair have won at least another night of stay on the carpet. Dumping my brain onto my blog and savoring some more (decaf) java will do.
WILL do.
Think about those men and women in Port-au-Prince who lost every single tangible thing from shelter to possessions, from sense of place to people. Family lost. And friends. Neighbors. Ministers. They were left with only their souls. Only their souls. If they can carry on with nearly nothing of the external world as support, how foolish for someone as fortunate as I not to nourish my spirit.
Maybe we can't stop the carousel, but if brave enough, bold enough, we can jump off to stand firmly upon the ground. To be still. If even for a few moments.
And, I'm not wanting to jinx things, here, but I just realized that my eye has stopped moving. For now. Wish me luck.
And peace to you.
The spastic flap of skin in front of my sight is presently sign of "too much." There are times that one's "normal" tasks and undertakings overwhelm, and presently, several areas of my life (while going well) have somewhat unexpectedly demanded more -- a lot more -- and simultaneously so. Too much is too much.
An overpriced, steaming hot, sweet and creamy, venti (decaf) cinnamon dolce latte at lunch on Wednesday and another that evening -- yes, two in one day -- presented as secondary symptom that I am in need of some time for self.
Skim.
Regular syrup.
With whip.
And reality is clearly relative. Babes "lost" in Haiti post-quake versus over-extended daily life. Seriously? And yet, the nervous system has it's limits. Living a trauma doesn't expand one's capacity to live at an unhealthy pace. It has, however, made it a slight bit easier to let go.
Having gone to a hell and back has lent to me some grit and courage to decide, to speak, to breathe.
And on a brisk, dark night, overcome by a fog of exhaustion, I choose myself. The piles of scrap papers and post-its remain in a stack, untouched. My tote of ungraded tests, and list of not-yet-contacted guest speakers waits. Receipts and bills stay piled in their respective labeled boxes upon the shelf while popcorn scraps and dog hair have won at least another night of stay on the carpet. Dumping my brain onto my blog and savoring some more (decaf) java will do.
WILL do.
Think about those men and women in Port-au-Prince who lost every single tangible thing from shelter to possessions, from sense of place to people. Family lost. And friends. Neighbors. Ministers. They were left with only their souls. Only their souls. If they can carry on with nearly nothing of the external world as support, how foolish for someone as fortunate as I not to nourish my spirit.
Maybe we can't stop the carousel, but if brave enough, bold enough, we can jump off to stand firmly upon the ground. To be still. If even for a few moments.
And, I'm not wanting to jinx things, here, but I just realized that my eye has stopped moving. For now. Wish me luck.
And peace to you.
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