Panic and Pauses (Road trip day 4)

I love the pauses, the breaks in busyness. Breathing happens there, allowance happens there. I've been listening to The Lord of the Rings on audio book during my trip and I find I have to pause it occasionally or allow my mind to drift and wander back. Tolkien was not a concise writer; the “and then” style of story telling can be long and exhausting as the reader or listener begins to count how many times “it seemed to be” and “as if the” and “felt as though” are used in a chapter.

When I was a kid I would read two chapters of that trilogy per night. I look back on that now and offer my younger self an impressed, congratulatory slap on the back. Over time I get used to the language and overabundance of words and description, but the initiation back in can be painful.

My point is, pauses are important if the norm is excessive flow. The reverse is also true. The mindless mental vomit of a “stream of consciousness” style of writing feels amazing, very much like puking when I have a migraine (sorry for the image, but the comparison is accurate). Pressure and tension are suddenly released, and a jumble of mental jargon escapes. After that release though, is another pause.

Friday was tough. I woke late. At first I enjoyed the laziness offered to me. No specific plans, a unique hotel suite (with not one, not two, but three beds), painting supplies perched on a side table, and a damned crick in my neck. You know the kind. “Oh, you want to look over your shoulder? Well, I think I'm going to make that movement as restrictive and painful as possible. When will I back off? Psh, like I'd give you that information. No, no, carry on through your day. I'll be here.”

I found myself in dark emotional spaces. Eventually I painted a bit. I ordered Thai curry from the restaurant on the corner. I tried yoga to release a body loudly complaining about long hours spent in a car. Then menstrual cramping kicked in while the road noise outside inscreased as the evening hours drew closer.

I could not describe what I felt in simple terms. My skin was crawling, I was panicking, I started to cry. Planning anything for the following day/days seemed pointless; I didn't even know what I wanted to do. I didn't want to be where I was, but didn't want to run anywhere. I didn't want company but I didn't want to be alone.

The couple people I texted that night, bless their hearts, wanted to offer support and help me figure out what was going on. I felt irritated; I didn't want to analyze or figure anything out. I don't think I could have. Eventually, after peeing of all things, I walked back into the bedroom and remembered that I didn't have to hold this anxiety so tightly. I could relax into it and open up the space. I didn't have to focus intently on it, staring through cages, but I could permit whatever It was to sit next to me on the bed. Allowance happens in pauses. I don't have to like you, I don't have to hold your hand. But you can sit with me.

Time and sleep claimed my eyes and night breezes blew gently into my hair. As far as pauses go, sleep is truly a blessed one.

I expect I will gently peel back my trip's significance over time. The harsh shift between spacious wilderness and crowded suburban/urban towns seized my body and spirit just as harshly. This is the importance of experience: we understand, first hand, what our needs are based upon evidence and comparison. I'm not yet certain of the deeper implications... I yearn for solitude, quiet, and direct connection with earth and trees unlike any passing fancy. I also find great ease and creativity in all these things, which surprises me. In the past I've clung to companionship and lost my center to insecurity in relationships. Now I enjoy my own space and do not painfully miss my loved ones or general company of people... yet I still greatly look forward to coming “home.” To miss something or someone and still be content with where I am in the moment... that blows my mind.  

Moving through Fear

I've practiced, learned, and taught at a yoga studio in Northern California for the last two and a half years. That space was a sort of home but I'm moving forward now. Moving moving, crossing a wide expanse of land moving. There have been bigger, more expansive moves in history but this is a big one for me. Through this process I've cycled through thinking, deciding, declaring, transitioning, planning, freaking out, procrastinating, packing, and more freaking out.

Lately, as my time at this home draws closer to an end, I'm engaging more in the freaking out part.

Not the sweating, trembling, panic-attacky freaking out. But the quiet fear that shows up in the mass of half packed boxes and untouched plastic garbage bags on my floor. The sleeping-in-til-noon, the piles of laundry and my turquoise sheets that desperately need cleaning. The mental to-do list in my head that hasn't made its way to paper because then this mess would be real. The written or the spoken words, they matter. They're more real than a fleeting thought.

I stuff and tuck this quiet fear underneath my stomach, ignoring its squirming until the pressure is too much to handle. This is how I internalize fear. If you watch me you'd notice I don't openly show my nervousness; I quiet, I still, and my energy sucks inward like a tortoise. I do nothing.

Fear causes a pause, a seizing up, a halt, a change of gears or direction. Last week I sorted through stacks and worn boxes of old drawings and writing and I began finding clues and insights into a childhood I don't remember very well. Finding some of these surprising, wonderful, and sometimes painful gems means something deeper than nostalgia and sentiment. I'm not sentimental about many of my belongings or much of my past. Instead, the symbolism of this process struck me right in the chest. This move symbolizes transcending years of hurts I don't remember the origins of.

I don't believe in being born again. I don't believe in recapturing a child-like state of innocence, and I don't believe in ultimate bliss, contentment, or the jelly-like blob of unity and love some people preach about. I will never throw out my journals regardless of what they hold. They're still relevant, the words still matter. That life still matters. If I move through fear, it won't be because I've forgotten about it or ignored it. I'll move through it because something mattered more than standing still. Transcending the current moment means honoring the past and reaching out in front of myself simultaneously.

I could easily not act at all and stay where I am. But after a pause, fear demands action, doesn't it? The running. The jumping. The falling. We run towards something or we run away, changing direction. Fear must react against something.

What purpose does me staying in one stagnant place serve? Nothing. It's time to grow, it's time to learn, expand and be bigger. That expansion is always larger than any fear of the unknown. Sigh it out, allow this to escape from the body. 

Poems, books, phrases, stories, and memories often show up for me in these moments of panic or revelation. When they do, notice them. I grew up reading Dune by Frank Herbert, and one line from that book will always settle with me: “I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

If I don't push the limits, will I ever be able to remember that I'm still breathing?