What the heck is going on?

A few weeks ago, things were humming along nicely. Words flowed and I caught them from thin air and typed them up. Time moved in a linear fashion and cogs and gears were all moving like clockwork.

Photo by Arif DALKIRAN on Unsplash

And then… a shift.

One moment I was (metaphorically) cruising the fast lane on a moving sidewalk; zigging, zagging, zooming, decisively moving in the direction I wanted to go. Traffic was progressing steadily, consistently, in an organized way.

Then all of a sudden, it seems I got ejected from this flow and landed in a Dali painting. You know, the one with the melting clocks? The contrast was stunning. All of a sudden, time and space were no longer what I’d come to expect from them and I wasn’t sure which way was up. Or even if “up” is even a thing any more.

Words became elusive. Time got stretchy. It seemed like August lasted a full year.

A new season emerged suddenly. Not yet autumn, but definitely not summer either. I call this “fifth season”, the liminal space of transition. Not quite here, nor there. Not exactly this, but certainly not that. It happens several times each year, but this time it seems remarkably potent.

Things are weird, chaotic, unpredictable. My groove is missing. Stringing together full sentences takes heroic effort and I have no idea how long this melted clock phase will last.

And then I got stung by a bee. I was sitting outside, having lunch with a friend when suddenly my finger caught fire. At least that’s how it felt. OUCH! I reflexively thrashed about, smashing the bee, yet the sharp pain continued.

The clarity! In that moment, I was so very aware of exactly what was happening. I wasn’t panicked, possibly because my friend just sat there calmly, using her mom voice to explain that the stinger was stuck in my finger.

It was so surreal and totally mundane all at the same time. To see the very obvious cause of pain, to know that it was only temporary, and that I was experiencing a perfectly normal response by shouting and flapping about. Very different than the amorphous sort of chronic pain I manage which (I can now recognize in contrast) seems less “real” because there is no obvious villain jabbing me with venom.

So much happened in that 90 seconds that enhanced the sense I’ve been cultivating that I’m not in control of anything and that I’m much happier when I let go of any idea of how things should be.

So, here I am, once again publishing “late”, cobbling together words in fits and starts, aiming for a cohesive product when none of the building blocks are square or even stable.

Maybe the gears and the moving sidewalk will come back online and things will proceed in an orderly fashion.

But I’m not counting on it.

Buckle up, buttercup is the message that’s coming through loud and clear. My goal is to be light on my feet and cautious of unexpected attack from invisible foes. I may not be in charge of anything, but I can at least do my best to meet the mystery with gusto and perhaps a hint of dignity.