the glory of our stories (even the ones that make us tense)




i woke this morning thinking about tension. ambivalence, paradox, routine, change.

i went to bed last night thinking my days are becoming too similar to one another, there's no great change, no room for exploring adventure. i went to bed thinking the adventures i am having are too small and i cannot wait, i simply cannot wait for the next big one. (i was bored with myself for being boring.)

and yet. and yet.

the paradox.

routine soothes. routines help me swim through my day, help me flow.

(and i am one of the most comfortable-with-change people i know.)

i went to bed last night thinking about how the rhythms of my days are so unchanging, but i woke up to be comforted by the ritual of coffee (yes, once again, you are mine, delightful caffeinated beverage: how i missed you last week, hormonal craziness).

i woke up the way i always wake up, slowly, not wanting to get straight into the day but pushing myself (because if i don't, the days go so slowly and nothing gets done and i feel worse). but not really pushing myself, because i stay in bed far longer than anyone else in the house does (morning people, both). mornings are just mornings. i'm not a morning person. i need time to wake up.

i woke this morning feeling there is a change coming, somewhere on the horizon, and maybe that's why i feel claustrophobic right now.

and how do i brace for those changes? do i change the mornings. allow myself some more slowness. allow myself more openness. but still get on with the day and not feel as if nothing gets done. (how can i read in bed more, and not facebook, how can i listen to music before i turn on the computer or the galaxy player?)

and if i am social only on media, how do i change that to become more social in my real life? or is online my real life, as it has been for over a decade now. and why am i still feeling this tension? the life of letters verses the world i can touch. (i can touch my computer. i can touch my galaxy player.)

this tension is needing voice. this tension is not needing solutions. this tension is producing the beautiful paradox that is the individual days of my life and the whole entirety of my life, all at once.

as i sit with the tension, as i love it for being mine, for being part of my life, i know: there's no tension except in me, in what my mind creates.

tension is so great in poetry. in art. and in life, too. how else would i create that art? how else would i know my life was more than just routine? how else would i know i was human?

like the long (too long) winter, and then after, the spring which bursts into color. both are necessary. and the tension, the exquisite tension (which hurts, truthfully, at the end) is all in our minds, really. a story we tell ourselves.

and aren't our stories glorious?