My mind, body, and soul have been confused since mid-February. I laid down my superpowers.
That is when I let go of working four jobs simultaneously. The same week Hubby finished his last day at work never to work a full time job again. Meanwhile our house is for sale, and we are responsible to help one of our close family members who struggles with mental illness.
Oh, and my nearly new laptop broke. Boo!
Somehow with three less boss supervisions to schedule per month I thought I would jump into a writing routine.
Nope. I found myself instead grieving the losses and challenges our family faces. I enjoy my new job, yet could not make the turn to be disciplined with writing during evenings and weekends. With the size of my household to-do list, free time is debatable anyway.
Then there is the ever present internal fight for gratitude. I wrestle with the fact things could be worse, way worse. I tell myself: Enjoy right now. Count the blessings even when the challenges feel like too much.
So I rested and watched winter play out its final weeks. I wondered when would I feel like digging into my passion? Afterall, I have not one, but two manuscripts that need attention! Do I dare say who need attention? I sense the writing files need me to breathe life into them. They will walk upright alive.
Worse, I received unexpected feedback from more than one friend that I don’t seem available or as connected as they thought I would be after the job shift. Don’t I have more time for them now? Haven’t the number of hours in a week expanded for me somehow? [No, it’s the same number of hours, Ladies.]
Some folks thought I would be more fun perhaps. I am flat emotionally. Even if I go through the motions to return texts, friends may pick up that my vibe is “off”.
I became quiet. I said no to multiple social outings. I don’t want to be that person who struggles all the time. I have less and less to say out loud. Besides, a realtor might request a showing any minute. I better stay close to home to swish a toilet or run the vacuum–this home in which I can no longer fully relax.
At times I dream of moving far away. Montana, Florida, Oregon, a random place with no expectations. I could take my troubles elsewhere.
Fortunately kindness and encouragement arrive from various people in surprising ways too. Cookies baked by a neighbor for our open house. A box of positive intentions to read one note at a time. Patience. Laughter. Forgiveness. Someone asking if there are ways for her to be a good friend to me right now. All good things.
Leveling up to a new reality is not instantaneous. I need time to adjust.
I cling to daily Bible verses, but I do not communicate well with God or anyone other than maybe Hubby right now. Perhaps I’m in the eye of the storm or this is the whole Footprints poem with one set of footprints at the moment.
I follow strong women on Instagram. What would authors Elizabeth Gilbert and Glennon Doyle do to self-care through this, I ponder? They are unapologetic in their processing.
Then Lysa Terkuerst makes the Word of God light up on my cell phone. She’s been through trying times.
And how about the young woman at my church who is blogging her heart out? She’s cool and fun to watch grow deeper into adulthood. Or my 100 miles consecutive running friend with a book coming out later this year. Love you, Kelly! I am still in awe that Kelly played on her high school football team. Shout out for writing consistency Brieanna Arsenault and K. A. Wypych! I am inspired by you weekly!
What emerged in my brain a couple days ago is that I dwell in what I should be doing rather than what I desire to do. And there’s too many should-be-doings. As a wife and mother maybe it is time I recover from some of that. I could be cooking, cleaning, and gosh darn organizing every hour of the day. Or I can give myself permission to write. Permission to take a time out. Permission to rest. Permission to be me.
Permission to say no as long as I need to say no. Permission to say yes to the right things for right now.
Permission is a different way of thinking for me. It is a shift in my perspective.
Permission means releasing the coulda shoulda woulda pressures. I can choose and then not think about the decision again. I have permission to let the chips fall where they fall.
Permission means I get a vote. Permission means I don’t constantly worry about everyone else’s needs before I do something for me. Permission might seem selfish. And I have permission to let go of that concern.
There are people I admire who give themselves permission freely without thoughts of repercussions. I love them and don’t judge them. I have permission to do the same.
I have permission to dial direct in my prayers and say more than early morning, “Hold me and ease me out of this bed, Father. That’s all I’ve got to say today.” I have permission to recognize seasons of life. I have permission to pray all the things and seek the path I know He imprinted on my heart long ago.
As a matter of fact, I have permission to open the screen door, listen to the rain, and write life into my novels. Right now.
CPR in progress.
P.S. What do you have permission to do? How are you managing the seasons of life?