Physically I’m backwards and not myself. I feel like a Red Mess. For years I have been QUEEN of insomnia. It was always very hard for me to FALL asleep, and even if I managed it and assuming the house stayed quiet and dark and no child or pet began a regimen of midnight projectile vomiting, I would sleep, on an EXCEPTIONALLY good night, for four, maybe five hours. After that, my body would pop awake and my brain would start churning and burbling from one side of my skull to the other like a quasi-domesticated Horta who is asking to be let out to go play mind-meld with Spock.
Now? I sleep seven or eight hours a night, solidly, undisturbed, and also generally crash for anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour in the afternoon. Like a system reboot.
I am used to being rabidly into physical fitness, and I am currently squashy and amorphous and unable to work out hard, and getting my sweat on is also my biggest stress reliever. Do not let the fact that my recovering body has hijacked me into sleep fool you; I am an incredibly high stress person, and THAT hasn’t changed. While awake, I pace and fume and fret, and I can’t go charging up hills and then drop and pump out 30 push-ups to relieve it.
Mentally? I have a new book coming out in a month, and that means I am in the maelstrom of The Big Crazy. Releases are both hugely exciting and wildly stressful. I freaking love this book — it’s a good two years of my life in paper form, me telling a story that truly matters to me in the best way I could. I am a month away from sending it out on its own into the world, hoping it will resonate with readers, too. I’m scared and hopeful and despairing by turns so rapid it feels like spinning.
Professionally? Because of the being sick and crap, I lost work time on the new book, and that pub date got pushed back. For the FIRST TIME, I am not going to hit a deadline. I talked to my editor yesterday. She’s been gently nudging at me to let it go, to stop being such a deadline freak and accept that I lost a whole season of 2010 and I can’t do it. And yesterday I finally threw in that towel and agreed with her, I can’t. The book will be late and the pub date will be pushed back, and while this takes some pressure off me, it has that ashy aftertaste I know is failure.
Spiritually? We are a year into the hunt for a new senior pastor, and I feel that we, as a congregation that I am part of and complicit with are splintering over things that matter not a FIG when you consider that God is large enough to contain black holes and bad romantic poetry and the event horizon and those kind of shrews that are smaller than your pinky, and yet at the same time small enough to care if some unseen kid in my neighborhood goes to bed hungry. I feel unmoored in ways I can’t control or fix. This congregation is an Us I love; a community of truly good but radically diverse people. We can be and have been so mighty IF IF IF and ONLY IF we work to bring our wildly different gifts together in spite of the fact that we are a bunch of highly individual dirty hippies and none of us agree on any single damn earthly thing. We aren’t right now.Maritally? My husband is in Orlando for ten days. I am single momming it and missing my guy, who seems to pack my sanity and hopefulness into his suitcases whenever he goes away. And of course this means that my already shortened-by-all-this-stupid-sleeping days are fuller as I have no one to spot me on driving all these SHORT people I live with to ballet or checking their homework.
In other words, I am so far out of my comfort zone on every level that matters that really, the only thing I could do this week to challenge myself to be farther out would be to strip down to my underpants and sit in a bathtub full of mixed vermin.
We have ANOTHER WEEK of this, and I need help. What should I DO? I didn’t post yesterday because I got…NUTHIN. I went to bed last night with Nuthin, and I woke up this morning with even more Nuthin. SO HOW DO I PARTICIPATE THIS WEEK? You tell me. I’m stumped. Find me a single place where I have a speck of complacency or rut, and I will root myself out of it, I guess. Either that or weep with joy to see it and build myself a tiny squat-hut there until a few of the pieces of my life have settled.