Sunday, May 13, 2007

ally, ally oxen free Six weeks ago, I moved. Not the farthest move I've ever had to make, or the most stuff I've ever transported across county lines, but a substantial move nonetheless. The only things to go missing in action so far are the book I was reading the day before I vacated the premises, a telephone, and a cardboard box full of light bulbs. I may have to accept that they fell victim to the mighty garage troll upon whose domain they intruded for awhile before they disappeared. Most items have been brought in to the house, with a few still considering where they might best come to rest. I'm sure they'll be letting me know any time now where that will be. Many culminations are at work here - dreams that I've had for some time forming a vortex of change and challenge. Good change and good challenge, but equally good resistance toys are also in order. I've written about another instance in my life when huge dreams came true - escaping small-town myopia, and finding a way to live overseas - based on what I believe was the focus I maintained with all my fantasy energies for several years on what it was that made my heart sing. And did it ever. But there came a point when I remember thinking, is this it? I got my dream - why doesn't it feel super-stupendous-fantabulous-happily-ever-after, all excitement/all the time? My shadow side was operating at full capacity, a force with which my tender twenty-three-year-old self just wasn't ready to deal. It would require another seventeen years of hitting my head against a brick wall before allowing my demon-slaying status to kick in. Not being the least bit interested in repeating said head-bashing, I am instead looking forward to building an everyday...
Bates Motel Bates Motel On occasion, more often than I care to admit, Anxiety sets up shop in my stomach. Just saunters on in, brushing past the ineffective bouncer at the door and takes a seat where it darn well pleases. Most days I manage to quell its merciless influence on my adrenal glands, implementing a repertoire of relaxation techniques that stem the tsunami of cortisol flooding my system. The theory goes that at some point in my past, the ever-ready fight-or-flight reflex served me well in some capacity as a coping mechanism. At this point in my adult life however I am more than eager to bid it a fond farewell, along with a few of its step-siblings - Guilt, Lack, and, the ever-popular, Approval. Over the past five years, there have been numerous shining moments when a particularly potent tool in that repertoire of mine has so completely distracted me from the mafioso's grip that I've remembered what stress-free living feels like. And it's pretty darn agreeable, let me tell you. So agreeable, in fact, that the contrast of NOT living like that on a regular basis fuels my determination to do so come hell or high water. Another one of these mafia-busting experiences came over me again recently, and you can bet that once I realized what was going on that I initiated hyper-observation mode. What clued me in was the slow recognition of a strange sensation in my stomach - nothing. No tension, no hunger, not the need for a rest area - nothing. Huh. This is interesting, I thought. Granted, I was on my way home from a lovely weekend of R-and-R out in the country with my sweetie, but recovering from some upper-respiratory crud hadn't exactly set the stage for enlightenment. A few minutes went by,...

Deb Schanilec

Connected and Committed relationship transformation strategist.

The Typepad Team

Recent Comments