![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I could go crazy on a night like tonight
Jun. 25th, 2003 01:23 pmI laid down for a nap feeling peppy and woke up feeling cranky. What's up with that? Why am I stressed out? My life isn't really that anxiety-ridden.
While laying in bed in the cool room, trying to motivate myself to go back into the hot apartment, I flipped open my Chodron book to this page:
Heartache is not something we choose to invite in. It's restless and pregnant and hot with desire to escape and find something or someone to keep us company. When we can rest in the middle, we begin to have nonthreatening relationship with loneliness, a relaxing and cooling loneliness that completely turns our usual fearful patterns upside down.
I'm not in the middle of massive heartache or anything right now, but the hot/cold imagery fit so perfectly with what's going on with my restless anxiety and outside environment. Maybe I should drag my computer and mixer and sound equipment all into the bedroom with the window a/c.
Though, come to think of it, summer has always been my least favorite season, and not just because of the heat. It's this huge chunk of time that supposed to be devoted to play and vacation and relaxation, but it never seems to work out that way. It usually involved stressful life changes and joblessness and absent friends/lovers and high expectations.
Except for when I'm not looking. There are other summer experiences I can taste in my mouth, savoring these spontaneous crystalized memories that remind me of the good things of summer. A white water rafting and camping weekend with this random summer school lesbian classmate and her family. A picnic dinner in Grant Park with friends while watching Auntie Mame and laying on the blanket with Educating Esme. Late night conversations on back porches with cold drinks and cigarettes. Sitting on marsh docks in Savannah, teaching a three-year old how to crab. Early morning tennis games with friends and afternoon shopping trips with my mother.
Summer's not all bad. I shouldn't be so grumpy with her for things in the past, especially ones that aren't even her fault.
While laying in bed in the cool room, trying to motivate myself to go back into the hot apartment, I flipped open my Chodron book to this page:
Heartache is not something we choose to invite in. It's restless and pregnant and hot with desire to escape and find something or someone to keep us company. When we can rest in the middle, we begin to have nonthreatening relationship with loneliness, a relaxing and cooling loneliness that completely turns our usual fearful patterns upside down.
I'm not in the middle of massive heartache or anything right now, but the hot/cold imagery fit so perfectly with what's going on with my restless anxiety and outside environment. Maybe I should drag my computer and mixer and sound equipment all into the bedroom with the window a/c.
Though, come to think of it, summer has always been my least favorite season, and not just because of the heat. It's this huge chunk of time that supposed to be devoted to play and vacation and relaxation, but it never seems to work out that way. It usually involved stressful life changes and joblessness and absent friends/lovers and high expectations.
Except for when I'm not looking. There are other summer experiences I can taste in my mouth, savoring these spontaneous crystalized memories that remind me of the good things of summer. A white water rafting and camping weekend with this random summer school lesbian classmate and her family. A picnic dinner in Grant Park with friends while watching Auntie Mame and laying on the blanket with Educating Esme. Late night conversations on back porches with cold drinks and cigarettes. Sitting on marsh docks in Savannah, teaching a three-year old how to crab. Early morning tennis games with friends and afternoon shopping trips with my mother.
Summer's not all bad. I shouldn't be so grumpy with her for things in the past, especially ones that aren't even her fault.
