It’s probably too soon to claim a turning point, but I’m doing it anyway–at least to attract one.
Over the weekend, I hit bottom. (God, I hope it was bottom.)
The bottom of what, you ask?
The rear-end of my relationship to self and work…
Though all along I could clearly sense that there were decaying odors polluting the pre-sent gift of my new work, I couldn’t shake the agony.
60 days of a steep climb into a new role while I try to to shed the old–overworked, overwhelmed, overextended–and I’ve made little progress.
I MUST TELL A NEW STORY, I say to myself, but I don’t know how. How do I create something new in this old mess?
Finally, I turn around and face it. I face ALL that I am feeling–despite how terrified I am to find the same old smells in a brand new space that held so much promise.
I poke at my anguish, piece by piece, until there is nothing left.
It is a very dark, dark day.
And then, it passes…
It passes even when the computer crashes several more times and even when I didn’t know how to pay a vendor or how to configure payroll. It passes despite the long hours where I worked, unsuccessfully toward no goal. It passes even as I admit to the one who has hired me that I can’t bare my own incompetence.
Here I am. Once again. The imperfect me. With nothing to offer, but self.
Despite the darkness, I brighten in the soft light of this acceptance, and reconnect to the gift of the world in this role. As I create invoices for member countries, I place tabs on the map for each place that I’d never been and others which I’ve frequented.
I brighten despite the fact that next week brings the audit and the executive board meeting and the last call for registration, all of which I would never choose to fit into 20 hours.
And I brighten, because even in my darkest hours, I took care of myself–with tea, and beauty, and meditation and a big, blue ball to stretch my neck after hours looking at a screen.
I listened to cello and opera and choral music.
I replaced the vintage calender from the power plant with a bright one of gardens from around the globe.
I put out photos of my grandmothers and my siblings and artifacts from my childhood–a doll from Switzerland, a tiny clay pot from Mexico, a jar of sparkling gems from my sister.
And each day, as I finish a much belabored and painful task, I push the bright red button–even when I don’t want to–just so that I can hear the TRUTH, beyond my thoughts…
“THAT WAS EASY.”
Kelly Salasin, January 2011
To read the previous post in this series, click here: Disquieting the Dream
or the follow up post: Dissappointment