Just a quick one, here.
I wish I could lie and say my pity-party is over, but for whatever reason what happened a couple of weeks ago with our house has felt like that proverbial rock thrown into a pond that ripples outwards in concentric circles. Like, the house instability has made our job instability that much clearer, and the job instability makes M’s depression more obvious, and M’s depression somehow sheds light on my terrible anxiety about most things, but especially about my writing–which makes it impossible for me to actually get much writing done since I feel so stymied by anxiety. Then the acupuncturist tells me in the most gentle way she can manage that she thinks my anxiety is partially to blame for my infertility–how could it not be?–so I’ve been trying my damndest not to be anxious, which, if you think about it, is pretty funny.
Oh, and the guilt for even feeling this way! Yes, I know there are terrible things happening in the world. I know how many blessings I have. I do know, I promise. But telling yourself not to be blue because of all the much realer and scarier sadness in the world is about as futile as trying not to be anxious, wouldn’t you say?
Yesterday I was reading a novel and the concept of teachers came up. Not yoga teachers or gurus, not writing teachers like me–rather, those people we encounter in our lives because they’re here to teach us hard lessons. And my first thought was, Ingrid. Our landlady. What is she here to teach me? I suspect, though my first reaction is “to never trust people again,” that it’s something about knowing what’s fundamentally stable and good in my life, and relying on that, rather than on illusions and might-bes.
But I don’t know, yet. I guess that’s what I have to figure out.