You know the days. You're paralyzed with how much there is to do, so you get nothing done. You try to hold your feet to the flame to tackle the one project against which your soul shrieks and find yourself gasping for air. The Stress Monkey sneaks up behind you and gets you in the dreaded choke-hold until you run for the front door, car keys in hand, on the way to anywhere. Just OUT. I'm having one of those.
The sun is shining. The meeting at the nursing home this morning about my mother's condition was predictable and pleasant enough. I know what I'm cooking tonight for my in-laws. I have a piano lesson at one. Why do I want to scream? Panic is setting in about finding a job at my advanced age. I'm missing my sons with a white hot fury. I'm surrounded by well-loved but utterly depressing women nearing the end of their lives and well past the end of their trolley tracks. The clutter in my house is an accurate symbol of the clutter in my soul. And I'm missing many too many friends.
It's sad not to know what you want to be when you grow up when you're over 60. I feel all this potential and I'm terrified that if I pick the wrong thing I will blow my last chance at finding out what I can really do and who I really am. Writer? Administrator? Singer? Speaker? All of those and more, but how does that translate into a position someone would pay for? So while I ponder these very serious and scary questions, and before the Stress Monkey chases me out the door again, I guess I'd better start the vacuum. Because on days like this it's important to see that you've accomplished something.