Feeling anxious and fidgety this morning after a couple of stressful days. A friend has been in a lot of pain, now is in the hospital facing possible spinal surgery. My son-in-law also is in a lot of pain from a work-related injury to his right arm, may need surgery, worrying about long-term damage, how to work, how to manage if he can’t. My own pain has shot up, probably in part because I haven’t been able to do the daily maintenance stuff I’m supposed to.
I’ve felt in need of soothing and couldn’t find anything readily available. Meditation probably would’ve helped, but sometimes I am so distracted by evil thoughts and the catastrophic future I can’t make myself sit down and do it. Reading a lovely poem by Jane Hirshfield that Mary posted on Letting Go this morning, I was in tears thinking about aging and time passing and days squandered…which wasn’t the point of the poem at all, the exact opposite, in fact.
It undoes me, this sort of mood. I lash out, get angry over nothing, rage at the news of the day, complain about my husband, get furious at my children, feel friendless and abandoned and peevish as hell. I want to sweep the table clean and start over, have some other life.These are the times I used to turn to wine, the great and almost instant soother. And instead, I have to sit here and feel this way. How fair is that? I’ve done the Right Thing, given up my wine, made the sacrifice…I should be rewarded, right? I shouldn’t have to feel like this! Never mind that the wine was taking my life away, flooding it with bleakness, leaving me alone in the dark. At least it dulled the pain in my brain–and back. That friendly soporific life-snatching analgesic.
Question: if a feeling can’t be felt, is it real? With wine, I could pass through the world like a ghost. Talk about squandering life.
Rage rage against the dying of the light.