I went back to work on Friday, and I’m having a difficult time orienting myself in space and time.  I’m sleeping poorly, kicking off my comforter as I toss and turn in the throws of bizarre, wandering dreams only to wake up in a panic scrambling for my phone to discover that I still have an hour and forty-two minutes left to sleep.  When my alarm does go off, I’m disoriented and bleary-eyed. I stare into my closet where my summer dresses and work appropriate blouses jostle for space, wondering how I used to dress myself for anything other than coffee shops or the beach.  I can’t seem to get to my car fewer than fifteen minutes after I should have pulled away, only to realize I’ve forgotten something essential, like sunglasses or – worse – deodorant.  This state of total discombobulation will last until after Labor Day when my bumbling will coalesce into militant efficiency wherein I can transition from deep slumber to driving down the Dan Ryan in under forty minutes.  Clearly, I’m not there yet.

My brain, however, is abuzz.  It’s gone from zero to sixty, and the rest of me has to catch up.  Part of the problem with this state of being is that, when I’m not participating in meetings, talking to colleagues, or (starting on Friday), actually teaching – I’m living entirely in my head.  Forget about talking to strangers, I don’t even see them.  I can unintentionally, and totally comfortably, isolate myself in a room chock full of people.  I’m not in real life; I’m in my head.

This way of existing in the world is all completely fine, of course, and it’s part of who I am and how I function. If I’m not cognizant of it, though, this blindness to the world around me will quickly become habitual, and mindfully, intentionally talking to strangers will fall by the wayside.  It would be easy for me to give myself a pass.  In fact, there’s a rather seductive and persistent voice inside me that keeps whispering to me, “it’s ok. Take a break. Just get your feet underneath you, and then you’ll get back to it.”  We’ve all heard this voice.  It might tell us to “just take a break” from working out or eating mindfully.  It might tell us to put down the difficult book we’ve been reading or to spend just ten more minutes on Facebook.  It’s Ursula’s voice from The Little Mermaid – coaxing and cajoling until it morphs into a triumphant cackle as we realize we’ve given up the thing we value the most or have worked the hardest for. 

I’m not suggesting that I shouldn’t be flexible and give myself some room to breathe as I make the transition back to work.  Rigid adherence to any plan, idea, or way of being or thinking is as dangerous as succumbing to that soft voice inside my head.  I am, however, recommitting to taking new risks and making some left turns.  Stay tuned. 

 

Until next time…