A Streetcar Named "Overwhelmed"

I must admit that lately, I've been overwhelmed. Not "rolled-up scroll" to-do list overwhelmed. Not forgetting to wear a bra overwhelmed.

Indecisive overwhelmed. Agitated overwhelmed. Lethargic overwhelmed. Flustered by the good weather, my Sims 2 expansion pack, a home improvement project involving planning meetings with a contractor and the Historic District, a teetering book queue, obligations, unpainted toe nails, and a dirty refrigerator.

An "overwhelmed stew" with odd ingredients that mix together and taste like cigarette broth. This reminds me of the time when I put too much gruyere in the broccoli cheese soup--initial taste was fine, but within seconds, it felt like someone had wiped the damp armpit of their gym shirt across my tongue. Not nice.

Blech.

I think that good things come from discomfort. Whenever I feel the need to claw at the collar of my shirt and tug it away from my neck, I recognize that I am the cusp of change (transition to camisoles, tanks, or v-necks?). If cat litter grains stick to the soles of my barefeet when I walk across the floor, I realize that I need to grab a scoop and and change the litter (plus vacuum, lest you think I am truly a filthy pig). When ideas are weighted june bugs holding a convention in my mind, I have to get to my notebook and scribble them down--tentative sentences at first, then sprinting, bounding ones, leaping the hurdles of narrative, plot, and characterization. June bugs tossing off their heavy shells and becoming lady bugs, higher, faster, and finally, the plunge through the finish line.

I am learning to accept that my pace in this process is not steady. I do my best to live an artful life, but sometimes, all this means is that I take time to enjoy the paintings that I have hung on the walls. Sometimes, an artful life is only me, perched in my red chair by the window, scrutinizing the birds that fight and fidget on the fence as I drink my morning coffee. Me and the birds and the coffee. Memorizing feather patterns, wondering why and where and who. Somedays, it is even worse than that: it is appreciating the ingredients on the yogurt container, or hearing the fistling that the toilet paper wrapper makes as it is balled up and tossed away.

I am learning to lie down in my discomfort and feel it in its entire "jimmy leg" glory. I am learning to look in the direction where anxiety dares me to go. I am learning that, although this is ultimately my show, I must be humble enough to ask for guidance, secure enough to slow my pace, and brave enough to dart when the time is right.

Overwhelmed, right now, is exactly where I need to be.