Lately, though a combination of a complicated home life, not having real time off for two and a half years, taking on a good (but time-consuming) writing project, dealing with what the rest of the world and country are dealing with, and perhaps getting inadvertently “triggered” by an ongoing situation, not to mention the death of Lorca – and the positive, yet stressful introduction of another galgo, Miguel, just last week . . . where was I? Oh, yes. A relative’s terminal illness, the ongoing housing of that relative, a stressful, emotionally draining job during a global pandemic, spending way too much time writing a book about how to process grief, a dead dog, a new dog, no time off, no fun time, the deletion of real family time . . . I am burned out.
I read about reincarnation and near-death experiences. I wonder about the expansiveness of consciousness and the interconnected nature of all things. I get caught up in Buster Keaton movies, drawn to that expressive face and the quietness of silence, a piano soundtrack to keep time with whatever is going on in my soul, the ghost in my machine. Body is mind, but mind is not body. My body attempts not to give up the ghost.
This is what I’ve been thinking lately (lately being this week) – what if I left my work behind? Stayed at home, tapped out my thoughts, attended to dogs and the home? The boy, big now and boisterous, doesn’t need me in the same way, and that’s ok. He’ll be gone soon, perhaps for good. But there is plenty to occupy me here, and without the noise of other peoples’ thoughts, the words could flow again
So, what does the rest of this life look like for this imprisoned ghost? How should I shape what remains of my career attending to the emotional needs of others? Am I in service or am I in connection? Yesterday, worn from everything, I decided to take a day off. Walks with my husband and the pups, a little Pilates, a lot of Buster Keaton, and very little work. And here I am, writing. Thank goodness.