It's Not Too Late
RESTARTING AFTER REST
I awoke last night in a fevered frenzy from a dream that had quickly turned into a nightmare. We had been preparing for a family vacation, but intense snowfall had delayed our plane’s departure. As is only possible in dreams, we waited for our flight at our house, which, of course, was situated just to the side of the airport runway. From the windows, my two boys gave me updates on the plane’s progress (or lack thereof) as I hurriedly threw in the clothes that we needed for the trip (don’t ask me why we hadn’t been packed prior to arrival at the airport). One of them shouted, “Mom, they are boarding the flight.” I sent my husband off with the boys to get in the boarding line and continued my frantic packing—Alex’s bathing suit, Ethan’s rash guard. . .What else was I missing? I zipped the suitcase closed and lugged it down three flights of steep stairs. As I exited the building, I looked up. The spot where our plane had been moments before was now clear. There was not an airplane in sight. I had missed it. All of my last-minute preparations were for naught. My family was mid-air and I was stuck holding the stuffed suitcase with no ticket. I was too late.
I’ve been struggling over the past couple of weeks—wrestling with stories of scarcity, fear & lack. Last January, I made a commitment to myself to write a bi-weekly blog and newsletter. I plowed ahead, proud of my persistence through the winter months, even making the time to write and post while on vacation. Through the early spring, I stayed faithful to my goal. Then, in May, I began to experience a tightness in my chest, an unease in the pit of my stomach when I thought about the summer months ahead. I would be taking on more hours with my children, more hours teaching Pilates at our family business, and a major role in a summer musical. With the help of my mentor, Freedom, I discovered that what I needed to do was to hit the “Pause” button—like the one that my Polish Grandmother Busia must have had to push at some point on the Sanders Candy assembly line.
So, I took a breath and decided that I was going to pause some of my coaching outreach & offerings. Maybe not offer the monthly workshops in the community. Nowhere in my “pause plan” did I acknowledge to myself that I was going to stop writing. Yet, stop writing I did. Every two weeks, I would feel intense guilt about not doing it. At the end of July, I committed an afternoon to myself and accomplished a post—but never sent it out in the form of a newsletter. Then another two weeks passed. My play was done, but I was exhausted. Another two weeks passed—it was fair week with all of the activities that it entailed. And another—the boys were about to go to school. Then another and my husband was away for a week teaching. Yet another and I was catching my breath and making myriads of scarecrows for my sons’ school fundraiser. Another two and my husband was gone again for yet another week of teaching. He returned home and I acknowledged my exhaustion. But it was Halloween and I couldn’t really take a break. I felt tired and guilty and ashamed of feeling tired and guilty. The voices in my head messed with my heart and soul— the lecturer accused me of being lazy, a quitter, a failure. It was too late for me to begin again. Who did I think I was anyway? The compassionate voice wrapped me in her embrace, whispered softly that of course I needed to rest, that once I caught my breath, I could begin again. I questioned all of the voices, unsure who I could trust to tell me the truth, instead of her version of the story.
Today, I simply began. Sat in my chair, opened my laptop, typed in the web address to create a new entry. I bypassed all of the emails calling out to me and the volunteer projects that were beckoning. Instead, I began this post, began to breathe and to put my story onto the screen. To offer my voice, my experience, my gifts to the world. As I write, I realize that I never gave myself wholehearted permission to pause. I decided that I was going to pause, did, but then berated myself the whole time for doing so.
Because I didn’t actually fully admit that I was pausing, I never set an end date for the pause—I just kept expecting myself to restart, then feeling guilty when I didn’t. . .
One of my core values is clarity. I am beginning to embrace the idea that clarity is not a destination, but a process. Before I am able to see clearly, I need to sift through the depths of the confusion and the murky sludge that lies beneath all of the voices in my head. As I break the surface tension of this elongated pause, I take another breath and am able to catch glimpses of the past and the future while I stand firmly in the present. I have a choice, here in this oxygen-rich environment. It’s not too late. I can begin again.