She pictured herself hanging on with
all her fingers to a wooden dock, and then, after hours of cramping hand pain,
finally just lifting off her fingers, letting go of the dock, letting the
gentle water and waves pull her backwards, like a pair of huge motherly arms
gently tugging on her from behind, guiding her down river. It would be so easy,
to just fall back, stop striving, stop rushing, stop getting things done, move
backwards instead of forwards. Why do we always have to run forward, move
forward, progress? The sense of accomplishment was nothing to her now. It only
burdened her, the constant list of things to do. She wanted to refuse to
function with lists, although all her life it had kept her organized, sane,
functional.
Now she simply wanted, if she could
admit to the truth without guilt, she very much wanted to let go, and stop.
Everything. Deadlines. Doing. Shopping. Decorating. Renovating. Driving.
Registering. Volunteering. Managing. Coping. At a very deep level, the fear of
her inner blank slate was going away. She wanted that white room. Actually, the
fear was rising to the surface and she was seeing it, instead of hiding behind
the business. And now that she looked at the fierce holding on out of fear in
the face, she no longer could do it. Something, some vision of a deeper life,
some need for inner psychic peace and ease, called to her.
How ignore it now, when
she was so exhausted anyway?
excerpt from a short story I am writing, started in 2005, and finally I am re-reading it and recognizing the truth of that moment.
namaste
jenn/musemother
ps I just posted this on Facebook on the Tao of Turning Fifty page
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