After what felt like Hell Week at work, I was so drained mentally and emotionally that I opted for a quiet, emotionally detoxing weekend, thereby skipping my usual Saturday morning writing session and slept. And slept. And slept.
As we grow older, our body sends us messages that are manifestations of our soul as well, conversations that we get very good at ignoring in our youth. But there comes a time when body, mind and soul colude to to pull the emergency brakes and make us stop running around like the Energizer Bunnies. For those of you too young to understand the reference, this is the ad that changed an entire generation’s lingo:
One of the fundamental lessons of meditation is listening to your body, going from toe to head, checking all the parts, nerves, muscles, and stopping to feel and understand the pain, if any. I used to do this every morning before getting out of bed, and have neglected to do so in the past months, much to my chagrin. Now I’m facing the consequences, with several blockages to contend with, and as a consequence, my body began to shut down.
The last time I landed in this spot I swore I wouldn’t let this happen again, and yet here I am waltzing with deja vu. The problem is that I don’t have anyone to pull the brakes on me at the moment, someone who reads me well enough to force me to stop with a hug, and remind me that my soul equilibrium needs calibration. This is the price of chosing a solitary path. As the saying goes in Spanish, and my dear IOE, I know you share this with me, Mas vale sola que mal acompañada (better to be alone than in bad company) or the Portuguese equivalent, Melhor sozinho do que em má companhia.
So if you ask me what my Saturday was like, all I can tell you was that I slept, woke up to answer the calls of nature, briefly ate something, and went back to sleep. I couldn’t even stay awake long enough to read, take care of pending administrative work, or even answer mails, so I knew I was in serious trouble. For once, I listend to my body and slept the day away. At some point I woke up because of the racket my housemates were making in the kitchen, but was too groggy to care, let alone complain. At first I worried that I would be awake the entire night, so I looked forward to writing during my favourite pre-dawn hours, but nothing doing. I simply fell back into a fitful oblivion and had very strange and vivid dreams. A Freudian or even Jungian psycholgist would have a field day with me!
This morning, I am in less of a daze – amazing what a refreshing shower will do! – and thankfully, even the terror child upstairs is quiet. I can’t bring myself to cook just yet, and the washing machine is still out of order, so I have the perfect excuse to indulge in writing. Now if only I could get the stupid trains to stop running so the entire house doesn’t shake each time they pass by (which is roughly every 20 minutes on a Sunday), I would be even happier. I should get packing though, because I have move again next week, thankfully just down the hall for now, but the thought of packing and moving again is frustrating.
I will miss this room terribly, because I won’t have the gorgeous view to the marina or the river anymore. But since I am out of the house 14 hours a day Monday to Friday anyway, the view becomes irrelevant. As if the Universe heard my sadness, this is what I woke up to this morning and shot from my balcony. Forgive the obnoxious cable running through the sky, but I am currently not equipped to do major post production.