That’s not idle cranial chatter pinging around in my brainpan. That’s the sound of genuine, bona fide thoughts. Lucid ones. Isn’t that something after all this time; I can think again. That or the marbles got loose.
So what mysterious force sparked this resurgence, you ask? I don’t know. My little world went topsy-turvy on me this month, like a snow globe in a paint shaker. Upheaval and disorientation are the orders of the day lately.
First, I moved to an unfamiliar area. Then I had the thyroid ablation, a tiny nuclear bomb in pill form. Then parted from the one constant I had, namely my dog. And, as a final insult, I got caught in a knock-down-drag-out-fight with the wind. That’s right, I said the wind. See : ixnay on the indway* :
It came blasting out of nowhere and everywhere at the same time to assault me in public, in full view of office workers, in broad daylight. I was tossed and blown and ricocheted when I wasn’t clinging like a bad smell to handholds and dear life. My entire self-image came into question.
No longer was I the reckless, undaunted dame I believed I was, but a quivering weakling. An ignoble wuss. It was disgraceful. There is shame in such cowardice, plenty of wisdom, too, but it was the shame that gnawed at me.
Was that going to be my future, I wondered, a craven, skittish existence? Was I destined to be the pigeon in my new and alien neighborhood? Oy. I drew the curtains and dragged my sorry self through days of bitter recriminations and muttered epithets. Until I awoke that sunny Saturday morning to my seminal moment, my epiphany, which was: Wait a second, I’m not a weakling!
I don’t cower. I’m not timid. And I can take a punch, dammit. So snap out of it.
Okay, as seminal moments go, it lacked panache. But it was effective, it was rational, it was even motivating. I began venturing out into my new neighborhood, on foot and unaccompanied. It’s not scary, in fact, it’s kind of wonderful. There’s a sense of community here and architecture and church bells and wide, tree-lined avenues. My bunker mentality has evaporated. This feels like home.
I stand up straighter, I’ve regained my footing and some of my confidence. New ideas occasionally pop into my head (at least I hope they’re ideas, not arteries), like the days when I had focus. The executions still blow, but the ideas are solid. Where there are ideas, there is hope.
Things are slowly returning to normal and life is good.
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