I’ll turn 39 in June, and I’m still having growing pains. That’s reassuring, I suppose, because my high school English teacher taught us about pushing our comfort zones, and what stagnation means, and I must have taken that pretty seriously. Right now, I’m moving through some thick weeds, looking for a tiny little BB.
The last week or two, it feels like I’m giving birth, to myself. There is so much physical discomfort with this latest growth spurt, and those are the best words to describe the forcefulness of the process. I am ripping at some deep, deep stuff that just simply doesn’t serve me anymore, and it turns out it’s not a nice little root that responds to ripping motions. It’s big. I keep popping its head off, and it keeps emerging, and pissing me off. It’s turning me inside out.
I am going to keep at it, because it feels like I’m moving in the right direction. But, I sense a strategy shift ahead. Perhaps this particular root stays, and I make friends with it. I am, after all, much less offended by dandelions in my lawn, now that I know they are edible, and my kids think they are magic fairy-wish seeds.
It’s a matter of time before I am able to see what this challenge has to offer. But come on, tick tock, let’s move already. A million beetles of unrest are filling my ribcage and just under my skin, and who lives like that?
