I burst in to 2010 like a . . . thing that bursts really quickly in to something else.
And now this. As you can see by my attempt at metaphor (above), my well is drying up a bit. The well of creativity, the well of motivation, of inspiration, of intrepedation.
It was bound to happen, despite the season I am in. Not Winter . . . I mean, the season of my life. I announced to my brother in early January that this is the year "things happen." 2008 was the year of figuring myself out--figuring out what I wanted and where I was headed and who I hoped to become. 2009 was the year of outlining--of making plans and preparing, of clearing out the things that don't belong in my life and ushering in the things that do.
And when I woke on January 1, 2010, I could feel that gentle breeze of continuing motion. I have been doing nothing but moving forward for the past month, keeping my sights focused on my goals, my mind bursting over with a million ideas for achieving them. Yes, indeed. This is The Year Things Happen.
And then it happened. I woke up yesterday with an overwhelming desire to stay in bed. And when I finally talked myself into getting out of bed, I wanted nothing more but to wander purposelessly through the day--to spend long moments staring at walls, to check my email seven times in a row in the hopes that something interesting would happen to me, to brew tea and then forget to drink it. It was a severe case of the "Blah-Blah-Blah-Whatevers," and I am sorry to say that it continued on to this morning.
But here, my friends, is the blessing: regardless of how I felt yesterday and how I feel today, this is still The Year Things Happen. Therefore, this is the year I learn to deal with the Blah-Blah-Blah-Whatevers. This is the year I learn to acknowledge them without judging them, then interact with them civilly in a way that encourages their exit without forcing it . . . because they cannot be forced out, and they cannot be stifled.
This morning, I opened my blinds, in a gesture that told the Blah-Blah-Blah-Whatevers, "Please make yourselves at home. I just hope you don't mind a little sunlight." Then I took a long shower, all the while saying to the Whatevers, "I'll be with you in a moment, I just need to refresh a bit." Then I cleaned up my room and cleared off my desk. By this point the Whatevers were awkwardly sitting in the corner of my room, with a look on their faces that is often reserved for those moments when one is the only guest at a dinner-party who is not privy to all of the inside jokes.
And here I sit now, on my freshly made bed, easing into the work of the day with some writing designed primarily with my own mental health in mind. The Blah-Blah-Blah-Whatevers are still here, but they're glancing at their watches and trying to think of a good excuse for leaving so soon.
And I am smiling to myself over a small victory. I realized this morning, that lying in bed next to the Whatevers, resenting them and thinking of how I should be pounding out proposals and words at the speed of blind ambition only made me feel overwhelmed by laziness. But a slow and steady response has apparently put me back in control.
Good to know, seeing as how this is, after all, The Year Things Happen. And I have just found a tactful way to make unwanted guests leave.