I’d never tell anyone this but there is a component of my psyche that gets flat out buried by worry and grief. I can’t tell you how it starts. I never know, once it starts, when it will end. I’ve experimented with reasoning with it and I’ve tried many times to attempt to conquer it but none of these strategies ever seem to work.
The main thing I know is that it needs space to breath. And it doesn’t necessarily want my input.
So, when it creeps up on me, covering over everything that had previously been inconsequential and fine, I make a point to go slower. I try to remember that the sky still exists. I remind myself that the funnel I’ve slipped into will eventually give, allowing me to think and feel and find my way to a new and gentle perspective.
I’ve come to admire it—the way it thrashes its way into my heart, determined to set up camp forever. But I’ve known it for so long, that each time it comes to clobber me with its fear and paranoia and dread, I look at as a chance to show it how nice I’ve made things, how comfortable and vast things are in here and how, even though I may not seem like I’m happy to see it, I’ll never tire of our perspective shifting visits.
Onward and Outward Then,
Ophelia Oy Vey