Day 28: Until we me time again…

It’s going to be a strange re-integration into my old hood. I might start a 30 days of retox blog next. I joke, but there’s a part of me that knows my re-entry might have a bumpy landing. Because I don’t want to be there. I want to stay here or pick up and move on all together. Someplace else where I can move forward, not settle back in.

If anything, my time away has taught me to shake the anxiety of not knowing what’s next. I’ve been here hanging in limbo space without a plan, without anything pushing or pulling me in any direction. I’m exploring possibilities–with learned patience. The kind you cultivate in a place with few people, little traffic and nothing that would qualify as noise.

How do I preserve my me-time mojo back in the hustle and bustle of the life I left on a shelf? I had a taste of that vibe the other day driving back to show my place to potential sublettors. I got riled by the mess my last tenant left, by the faucet that stopped functioning, by the lunch with the Negative Nelly. I didn’t want to be there.

The good news is, I shrugged it off fairly quickly. It came as those those feelings do. I felt them as I should. And then released them into the atmosphere like unwanted imaginary balloons.

All I can tell you is this works. If you have any hesitation about taking a retreat, a sabbatical, whatever you call it–don’t wait. I wish I could keep it going. I’d be thrilled to stay in the quiet Farmcoast another month. That’s probably all the stillness that’s left in it before the summer-house crowd returns. I could stay if the universe met my wishes, but it’s looking like I won’t get my way this time. It’s really disappointing. But I tell myself, it’s time to get ready for the next unknown chapter.

I hate the word ready. It doesn’t exist. It’s one of those fleeting concepts that people feel too much pressure to achieve–like happiness. It’s real then it’s not. It’s present, then it vanishes. It exists in momentary flashes and by the time you jump on it, it’s gone. Until it isn’t. That’s what I think about readiness.

You take it as it comes in life. The waves, the swells, the trickles, the nothings. The hellos, goodbyes, see you soons and want to see you soon but likely never wills. Those are particularly poignant.

It snowed last night and coated my view with same (yet thinner) blanket of white that sat outside my window sill when I first arrived. I took it in–like on day one–only my ahh was one of familiar comfort, not the breath of freshness it was then. Still, it’s awesome. And I want to bottle it up and put it on my shelf at home so I can take a whiff when the wind isn’t blowing my way.

But I can’t. And this time will fade just like time always does. And when the memory falls too far behind. It’ll be time to come back again. Not to Westport or the Farmcoast, necessarily. But to this thinking-doing-feeling-learning-letting go gray space…the place where possibilities dwell.

Day 1: Shelved.

I put my life on a shelf for a month.

I have to check out to tune in. Similar to that 60’s psychedelic sentiment–without the drugs.

The house I’m renting is delightful. There’s a panoramic view of the river just over the sun deck, a lawn blanketed in at least a foot of snow and a short pier at the end jutting out into the icy, glassy water. It’s even snowing softly yet steadily, accentuating the already soothing scenery.

All I need is some wood for the wood burning stove. And to figure out how to hook up my Apple TV for my guilty pleasure of back-to-back episodes of House of Cards. My box of paints are waiting to be cracked open. My Kindle is loaded.

There’s so much bubbling over, I don’t even know if 30 days is enough. What does it take to live a life where you’re tuned in to yourself all the time? Why do we get lost? When does the questioning fall away so that I can just be?Screen shot 2016-08-21 at 10.32.31 PM

A shelf holds things. Displays them. Keeps them for later, periodic use. At some point, we dust the contents off. Shelves hold things we’re aware of. We know what’s sitting where and why. But we leave them there until the right moment–contented that they’re easily within reach when we’re ready.