Remembering to take a break.
The walk I almost didn't take.
Busy. Life is busy and hectic. It seems there is always something to be done as I'm now focused on marketing my book and developing my coaching practice. My lists have lists. I'm not the most organized person, and so on occasion I declare, "Today I'll get everything put on the calendar and filed away." Of course, this is in great contrast to several years ago when I felt I had nothing to live for when my marriage ended abruptly. So, to be busy these days with my own endeavors is quite a feat in itself. I've come a long way, baby.
But I've been realizing just how invasive and isolating being 'busy' can be.
As I scurry along the author/coach path of building my business, I realize how I've let fear be the driving force of too many of my days and nights. There. Confession. This has been such a challenge because knowing the mechanism of fear, that it's "false evidence appearing real" and on the low side of the emotional energetic scale - there's a part of me that can observe very clearly when I'm in 'fear' and some of my tools like present moment awareness, deep breathing, tapping and mindfulness weren't taking the edge off the blade of fear, slicing through the peace I'd arrived at many months ago.
While my head was buried in the computer, a friend texted me a picture of the bay with a warm orange glow reflecting on the water and dancing with the speckled clouds. "Is that now?" I texted back, jumping up from my "couch-desk" workplace to look out of my window in disbelief that this beautiful image he sent was indeed happening, live, in that very moment. I stopped what I was doing, changed out of the pajama bottoms and put on proper sweatpants, didn't bother with a bra under the fleece, wrapped a scarf around my neck and quickly hurried down the sandy path, wanting to get there. To arrive at the destination of beauty and peace. C'mon! Hurry up!
Get where quickly? Running through my mind, "Be here, now." Ram Dass. Present moment awareness. Okay, right. Slow down, take a breath. Mmmmmmm, what a delightful fragrance.
A slower step. An observation of a soft whitish-pink flowered bush with a happy-to-pollinate bee nestling into the delicate cluster. A slower breath. I glanced up toward the sky and took an even deeper breath. My shoulders relaxed. Birds chirped as they bounced from branch to branch on the sturdy scrub brush plants dotting the sandy landscape.
As I got closer to the edge of the bay, the aroma of earth brought me back to Martha's Vineyard when I was nine-years-old. My mom and I rode bicycles with large blue and white striped plastic baskets tied to the handlebars as we peddled along the sandy streets near the quaint cabin my parents rented for two weeks in summer. We'd fill the basket with shells and flowers we found on our quiet discovery quest.
Martha's Vineyard blended with the pungent horse manure which brought me to the sleep-away camp tucked into the woods in Massachusetts where I spent the summer before my parents announced their decision to divorce.
My thoughts came back to the moment as I gazed upward, observing the sky and water changing ever so slightly with each passing moment. It's funny how we may only be aware of small moments in times of sunrise and sunset when colors shift right before our eyes. But each day is filled with those same moments - and it truly is all we have.
A bee buzzed happily to my left. Fish splashed to the surface of the water where thousands of insects played lightly on top of the waters placid surface.
I wasn't busy anymore. Oh, sweet relief from the thoughts that had been sprinting through my mind only to start the relay over again. My lesson was to "be here now." My lesson was to practice what I know about trusting, about allowing life to unfold, about believing and receiving. My lesson was to create a plan for balance in my life.
And look what I would have missed had I not stopped to take a break. More importantly was the feeling of calm and peace I received from being under the wispy sky, the still warm air and the glow of the days end setting into evening's shade.