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The Dead Fish

I am perched at a table directly above the San Pablo Bay, with San Francisco (a City where I once spent half of my life) a stone’s throw away. This delicious gem of a Crab House (rightfully named “The Dead Fish”) where I find myself for the first time, is located in a Podunk town called Crockett. If that sentence doesn’t highlight some of my Southern roots, I am not sure what does. To say I am bathing in my solitude in this moment is a vast understatement. These days are few and far between for me now, and I would be lying if I said that fact did not conjure up a number of conflicting feelings for me.

This moment solidifies my notion that seafood is my love language. Well, that and carbs. As I sip spoonful’s of the fresh clam chowder sitting in front of me, and crack open my first Colleen Hoover novel (I am jumping on that ship headfirst, I will admit), I think about the life that has brought me here, on yet another solo day trip, pondering life after yet another week that broke me.

The fact that indulging in good food while deep in thought about my life is a common theme here, is not lost on me. But as any parent knows, savoring a meal with no distraction is often a luxury over a right.

I miss writing, more than I could possibly express here in one post. I miss the feeling of being free and inspired. In fact, I could not even remember my login password to compose this post. And that saddens me, because just as much as I enjoy reading from the minds of others, I have (for some time now) cherished the introspection that comes from this process of writing.

This analogy might ignite some eye rolls, but in this very moment, it is oh so relevant. The plate of fresh crab is delivered to my table and I am suddenly, ever so slightly, regretting this decision; solely because of how messy it will be. And messy it is. Getting bits of crab shell all over the table (and my shirt because my ego simply could not allow me to wear the bib provided), and that amazing garlic sauce all under my freshly manicured nails. But the reward, that perfect, buttery crab meat…..was worth it. And while I won’t even try to compare my mental clarity to crab meat (I am not totally insane, yet), I will say that this process I am in: the healing, the weekly therapy sessions, the tears, the step back (from a once vibrant social life), the digging, the unraveling and the putting back together…..it is a messy one. But survival mode is no way to live life.

So while I sit and enjoy some “dead fish”, I make the decision to ignite thriving mode, for that woman in me that created this space many moons ago.

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Catnaps

Sundays are for catnaps. For boutique browsing. For sun soaking. For book diving.

As I lay in bed, that mid-afternoon sun pushing through the blinds and Chloe girl at my feet, I think about how many Sundays have come and gone since I have written last.

Perhaps one of the saddest parts of growing up is how all too often we allow ourselves to become completely engulfed in responsibility and people pleasing, to the point of breakdown, before we pause and reevaluate.

That is where I find myself on this particular Sunday. Slowly climbing my way back to mental clarity; breathing slightly deeper and pausing a little longer. In fact, it is quite telling how much the power of saying NO has been directed at my own self lately.

I have been addicted to “busy” for years. The feeling that productivity is everything and if I am not constantly one step ahead of myself, I am failing. What is that saying…….”Never become so busy making a living that you forget to make a life”? GUILTY. AS. CHARGED.

That is, until I found myself sobbing uncontrollably at night; sick with stress; wanting to run and hide every chance I could. But no matter how far I ran, the burnout was inevitably there waiting. The flawed thinking, the skewed priorities, and the knee-jerk life reactions that were embedded in me like a tick.

So here I am, yet again, finding my way back to myself.

“Heal yourself first. The rest will come later.”

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Waves

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Frazzled, knotted, enmeshed. Thoughts like vines, sure to suffocate.

The complexity of sustaining both warmth and gloom.

Hopeful. Helpless. Intrigued. Indifferent.

Letting each one rise until it exhausts itself, then passes like dust in the wind.

Revered for the spark they ignite; good to better. dark to enlightened.

No longer do I resist the transient waves.

May the tide lead me back home.

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The Great Pause

Wednesday morning. It’s 10:00am and I am sipping my homemade espresso with almond milk froth on top and just a dash of cinnamon. Funny to think I used to spend $5 a day on this habit that has so quickly become an enjoyable do-it-yourself task. Leaning back on the patio loveseat, I stretch my legs out to absorb the sunlight that streams in ever so generously this time of morning. There is a stillness outside that at first I found eery, yet now I’ve come to embrace.

I have been hesitant to write about this new “normal” that we are all, in our own ways, trying to navigate through during this unprecedented time period. Mostly because, up to this point, it’s provided me with many more positives than negatives. I suppose part of me feels a tinge of guilt from that fact. Knowing how many people have lost their jobs, have had to suffer decreased income, who have lost family members and friends from the pandemic, and of course for the health care workers who have had to witness a magnitude of innocent people die very much alone. I feel I should be grieving alongside them all.

Every morning I wake with gratitude. That myself and my boys are healthy, that we have plenty of food to sustain us, a cozy home to enjoy together while we are quarantined, and that I have remained fully employed, despite the economic state. I have spent the greater part of the past six years in particular, with a thankful heart. But this experience has deepened that sense for me, and brought me back in touch with the simplest of life’s pleasures. A fast paced nation with unparalleled momentum, at a sudden standstill. I walk outside and see father’s playing catch with their sons on a Tuesday afternoon, mothers and daughters enjoying coffee and conversation on their patios, and couples walking together in the evenings laughing and conversing. And I can’t help but think, at what cost we have found contentment.

Part of me yearns to return to the old normal, ready to join my girlfriends for happy hour, backyard bbq’s, and crowded coffee shops in the morning. But during this “great pause” as it’s been deemed…..I can’t help but contemplate this one piece of advice:

“In the rush to return to normal, use this time to consider which parts of normal are worth rushing back to.” – Dave Hollis

So as the days pass, quiet in my home, sans the distractions I’ve become accustomed to, I welcome the silence; the stillness. I breathe it in and from it I exhale a newfound love for life. Far from vibrant days in the city surrounded by tourists, the acoustic music of the street performers, the aroma of fresh coffee and food. This is life. The life we all have waiting for us when we get home, when we are our truest, most authentic selves. How we receive this opportunity to return to our true selves paves the way for a society of PRESENT individuals.

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