Where to begin?
I feel…floopy. This is the word we use to describe how the dogs get when they’re tired and flop down onto us because they want some hard-core lovin’. Except…without the existential panic that I’ve been feeling on my insides, I think. Can dogs have existential panics?
I immediately want to think about what’s causing these floopy feelings: the moon cycle, the cold weather, it’s mid-February, I haven’t written anything in a while, I have to make some business decisions, I’ve been comparing myself to people, I’ve been worrying about what people think of me, I’ve been reading books that are so good they make me question my own abilities as a writer…oh, golly, the list goes on and on.
I just have this pressure in my chest centre. It’s like someone’s hand is pushing on the part between my boobs where my ribcage meets. It’s not a painful feeling, but a pressure, kind of. And no, not like a I-need-a-doctor feeling because I know how that feels.
Two nights ago, I did a big write in my journal about this feeling and I came to the conclusion that this place – the spot where my ribcage meets between my boobs – this is where my soul currently resides. I don’t know if souls can move around in a body…or if they can change shape and size…but I’m feeling like they absolutely can. A soul can also hide in the deeps of a body and be inaccessible if it wants to. But that’s not happening here. I think my soul is like, HEY. HEY, YOU. And I’m like, UM, ME.?
WHO.AM.I? WHAT. DO. YOU. MEAN. – YOU? DO. YOU. MEAN .’ME’.?
And therein begins a kind of tightening panic in my centre-chest.
I’ve been here before. The place and time where I just can’t feel my self. When I question my purpose. My place. My reason. And I fall into the deeps of what.it.means.to.be.alive.in.this.time. I feel like an alien. I feel like…maybe I’m not from around here. Do you ever feel this way?
And why am I so afraid to write about it? These soul-screaming feelings that make me question my me-ness at the same time as they make me feel more alive than usual but in ways that affect my ability to really know anything. Like I have this soul-voice knocking thoughts around in my brain and my heart is like, hold on – who’s this? What’s this new language? What’s going on?
I mean, I’m a writer, that much I know. But when even this…power feels…well, floopy, I start to feel panic.
Do you ever feel like it’s hard to…decipher? To take so much in, process and then have an opinion? Or create an action?
Why does social media make me so uncomfortable?! There’s this thing on Instagram (which is the new…well, Twitter and Facebook, right?!) called a ‘story’. Seems to me I should be drawn to this. I’m a story-teller. It’s simple. Press the button to start the video. Record stuff. Hit stop. Add cute words/decorations and then HIT SHARE. This story exists for a certain amount of time, and then, poof, it’s gone. Folks are into this fleeting style of sharing. But why does it kinda freak me out?
Where does it go? Does it mean anything that folks can miss it altogether? Do I feel that attached to stories that I don’t want to know they’ll disappear into some magical cloud? Or does it have nothing to do with the story, but everything to do with not even remembering this form of communication exits…and maybe I don’t want my face all over the interweb? Because my own self-confidence about how I look is very likely one of the major reasons my soul be like: HEY. HEY, YOU.
It’s trying to get my attention.
I feel very much like a stranger in a strange land most of the time.
I don’t know if I’m doing a good job of explaining how I’m feeling. There’s a voice in my head saying: it doesn’t matter! Just write.
It’s Valentine’s Day. Okay. Every day is love day, isn’t it?
I feel that love is so obviously what’s in the floopy zone. My own love. Love of my own work – on the page and in my mind.
This presence in my chest-centre is love being gathered by my soul. And if I’d just be quiet and listen..let her finish speaking…there’d be more to learn. More to receive. More to ponder.
HEY.HEY, YOU. I LOVE YOU.
…and the tears come.
Existential panic is…an awakening…an invitation…a love letter…I think…somehow…
I don’t know what else to say. This is me today.