Fantasy vs. Truth
I might be a stimulation junkie. For me, it’s easier to run around and fill up space than it is to sit still and feel what there is to be felt. I don’t give myself a ton of dedicated time to breathe, to garden, to pat my cat, to snuggle my dudes, to massage my own hands and feet. Historically, that stuff hasn’t gotten its own line item on my day-to-day to do list.
It’s more like that stuff gets squeezed in between the stuff that “counts”. The being productive stuff, the achieving, external stuff. The self-care input stuff happens to the extent necessary to keep going, not as it’s own valid, valuable activity.
Turns out though that the inhale is just as important as the exhale. The input, the self-care parts, are essential to sustained, optimal care-for-others output parts. They aren’t just for when all hell’s breaking loose, the lifeline when I can’t hold my breath any longer and need to gasp for air.
And it makes sense. I like flowers in bloom, not budding or falling off their stalks. I like waves when they’re cresting, not retreating out to sea or breaking. I like bright sunlight, new moons, avocados on that one day they are perfectly ripe and the chorus parts of pop songs — not the verses or bridges so much.
And yet. And yet. So much of life is not those peak moments. It’s ebb and flow, sunrise, sunset, bloom, wilt, repeat.
Life’s not all peak. And I can’t be all peak. All in output and perky and outward-facing, never in ebb. Never in quiet self, replenishment. Not if I want to keep going rather than crash-recover-crash-recover, crash-recover.
Ebb and flow, riding the is-ness of my life, taking care of myself “whether I need it or not” sounds like a better deal. An easier deal — ease-ier. Because it’s a way of being in alignment with truth rather than fantasy. I could give that a whirl. I’m gonna keep going.