Grandmother's death unexpectedly (more unexpectedly than close relative's death?) unlocked a vault of depression I haven't dealt with in a while. Coupled with long-term vacation, where work isn't there to stay my over-stressed stimulant, the constant fight in the 'fight or flight' choice, the unexpected news have made me face some undercurrents in my brain which are usually, I suspect, safely shut off from consumption.

I feel differently motivated, which is unsettling (not wrong or right - just new and still raw); feel annoyed with intra-human emptiness which comes from unsatisfying friendships; feel a yearning for something more complex and fulfilling, without clarity as to which area of my life needs that most. I'm sensing that the 'work void' has identified a sustained void in relationships - ridiculously aligned, metaphysically same-paged, soulfully matched people who fathom, cook, read, think, dream, challenge same or similar things, or very different things but similarly in process, approach, thought, motives.

I'm also slowly growing overwhelmed with stuff. There's stuff everywhere - in this room, this house, this life, this mind. I will begin to annihilate stuff - it slows me down, it creates restlessness and panic, it begets more stuff, it takes place of people, and takes people's place. Shit's got to go. Mindfully - in the reduce/reuse/recycle (or sell it all at a giant garage sale) kind of way, but I will claim space back, for fewer things which hold greater importance. I'm an unexpected minimalist, it turns out.

I'd also prefer to occupy a bit less space myself - with my person - would like to meet again a slender stalk of a college girl thinking her way through late teens / early twenties. Just as the external junk slows down life juice and overwhelmingly suffocates, the extra flesh hanging around internally  challenges physical acuteness, feeling of being - and staying - awake, feeling of light, and of direction, and of air, and of inflection. I'm an anchor to myself, which is doubly annoying. I will not find myself slouched over a second-rate meal, in ill-fit clothing and feeling more invisible the larger I am. If it takes years, I'll dig up the strong, thin arrow of a girl I used to be, as fragile as she was magnificent. With years of pure haze of raising tiny humans slightly behind me, I see the well-being road up ahead and it's looking good to my drooping gaze and body. My forties, Lord willing, just may be my best decade yet.

So  what have I here? More acute awareness of fragility of family; search of soulful acquaintances; want of less junk; and need of more health, as body-mind connection fires off strong. I'm good with my inventory. It is not extensive, or exhaustive; yet it commits me to specific actions, and releases me from others.

The rate at which my deep-seated hunger for primitive silence is escalating is alarming, maybe? Truly, I instinctively search for virtual mute button to drown out the constant noise. These are not proverbial, allegorical statements. Presently, I crave detox from over-stimulation like a new mother craves uninterrupted sleep. 

It is entirely possible that, were I to get my wishes granted, I would waste more than one hour on vegging on social media. I would spend a few on deep, heavy naps. I would maybe organize or clean my immediate surroundings, after a while. Venture out to get a solitary light, fresh meal which, in a menu description, would not include words like 'macaroni' or 'chicken'. 

But after the initial relief, I would finally stare out over open country and think deeper. I would pray for God's takeover of my newly refurbished mental infrastructure, so I could start to rebuild the intimate, the surreal, the true, the ultimate me in Him. The only me worth pushing onward, because just then my focus is clear, inner compass set straight, and all lingering ballasts dropped. 

Life would simply make perfect sense again. 

I think of this, presently mentally lost like a newbie outfielder. 

"I miss you," she texted me (at eight years of age, she's already uncomfortably agile with gadgets).

"I love you, Mama," she told me from an inch away, her chubby arms clutching her blanket in the dark.

"I love you, Mama, you're the best," he told me after I held his hot tea with honey for twenty minutes for him to sip and help his cough.

I still think I screw this up 90% of the time. Through absence, through distraction, through busyness, through need for solitude which translates into impatience. But either they see it and love through imperfection, or they choose to see only the lovable.

The depth of these blessings I'm unable to fathom. I still spend most of my mental space on matters too minute, too insignificant, too impermanent. But every  now and then I'm washed over with sheer awe at the three of them being RIGHT THERE. RIGHT HERE. With us and with each other.

I'll keep trucking on, for the 10% of time I think I'm raising them right. Lord, help me.

Seize MY diem!

What I need? Energy. I'm operating at a 60% of general 36-year-old capacity, I think. My muscles are constantly scrunched up from sitting for 8-10 hours a day; my eyes are blurry with screen time; my fight or flight response is now permanent and my jaw is constantly clenched.

Since I need to live to 100, I'm not thinking that's the way to get there?

I give in to perceived urgencies too easily. What if I don't to *that* email? What if I can't finish *this* quick side project? What if I step out for 30 minutes, and the world just ceases  to spin, as it does when I stop to get out of the driver's seat for a bit?

My well-being is not at the top of my priority list, and it's my own fault. A bit of victim mentality - I exist to support everyone and therefore I cannot afford to support, to care for, me. Which is, of course, genuine BS. I'm afraid of hard work to restart my well-being and so I look for loopholes. That, of course, gets in the way of the live-to-100 plan a little, I suppose.

I should walk in the morning, and to do so, I should not waste sleeping time yet again on the internets. And here I am, though.

He laughed today

Just an hour ago, in my arms, he snorted, and chuckled, and LOL'ed.

And I couldn't help but think about the dark, long time when he didn't. A three year old caught in confusion and chaos and fear of adults figuring things out.

And then I didn't want to think of that any more, and I made him laugh more, hugging him, squeezing him, tickling him. Holding him.

Watching his face and suddenly realizing he's on a huge growth spurt. His face is more defined and grown; his features, no longer toddler-like; his attitude, more settled; his needs, more verbalized and formed.

I think of his heart occasionally and pacify myself by thinking - believing - he's OK, and everything inside him is ticking just fine. I think the Spirit groans with me in that moment, an unspoken prayer, a plea that I'm right about all this.

My son, my love. I don't do well at all times remembering to treasure your physicality, your rough hugs, your expressed need to 'spend time.' I will do better tomorrow, I promise.