I wish I didnāt feel things so deeply.
And thatās the reason I canāt ever try to moderate. Oh, I could sort of moderate when life was relatively predictable and on the level, but when the storms came and the branches bent to the winds, when the waves tossed me about ā open the escape hatch and a bottle of wine. Run. Flee.
I wish I didnāt feel things so deeply.
It mostly doesnāt show. I donāt emote openly, Iām not hugely reactive on the surface. The storms rage inside.
As a child I instinctively took to the hills, grabbed my bike, went outside. Thereās something so undisputably calming about nature ā even just a little patch of undisturbed grassland or forest. Always best for me if itās truly nature, but Iāll take a garden in a pinch.
As an adult I still did this, but it became so much more habitual to hit up the wine market.
It was predictably hard, last week, to see Mom (so much change), but predictably good too. It was unpredictably hard to go to my usual spots for comfort ā like the footpath along the river I played on as a child, routinely returned to in adulthood, especially after putting down the wine glass ā and found the dozers and road builders smoothing the area into what will be 4 lanes of traffic each direction. Offramps galore.
I wish I didnāt feel things so deeply. I wish I grieved normal things. But, the trail! Itās gone, and whatās left of it is not the same. Iāve lost a limb. No, another loved one. And more of home. Gone.
My writing instructor and my therapist are both excited. Iām to mine this feeling, lean into it, use the craft of words and turn these deep feelings into something that honours this place, even if only on the page.
Iām grateful I feel things so deeply. At least, Iām learning to be.
More about last week laterā¦