Precariously Balanced
I had the best day today. I slept well, even snuggled up next to my two year old for the last few hours of my short morning. She didn't pin me in the "H for Hell" position but rather nuzzled in under my chin, sharing her warmth and love in her slumbering state, all innocent and peaceful in her tiny nightgown and diaper.
My alarm went off and I rolled out of bed without needing the snooze. I put my girl back in her own bed before I dressed for work and she stayed asleep while I got ready. I kissed my snoring husband good-bye and peeked at a perfect blood sugar on our oldest before I headed out the door.
I ate the most delectable deep purple plum on my drive, listening to the radio and not even getting annoyed with the silly banter of the morning djs; the drive went quickly and I was smiling and ready to be a nurse when I walked to get my assignment. Put on a unit where I thrive, I was given a great line-up of patients and enjoyed doing the best parts of my job- educating and coordinating care with families. Sitting for all my break times and even a little more, my shift went quickly and I was content at work. I talked about life and smiled and joked. I even told a story about my son without the bitterness that could have accompanied it. I clocked out on time after wishing my patients well and walked with a skip in my step to my car, chatting up a good friend all the way home.
My mood could not have been higher as I sat on the couch tonight after such a great day away from home. My girls all tucked in bed, a bowl of popcorn at my side, I pulled over the stack of mail to peruse. After a birthday invite, a credit card offer, an electrical bill and a clinic reminder, one envelope sat waiting at the bottom of the pile. It was settled on the leather seat next to me, seemingly benign and the return address didn't catch me unawares. I was expecting the label and reached in, only surprised at my reaction really, after reading the words on the papers I had known were coming. A simple signature is all they requested and I balked, reading carefully then folding them up and setting them down unsigned.
Here the world tipped. The balance fell on my day. In the last two hours of the night, I lost all the ground I had gained. A request became personal for me and I lost my grip on the plan I had made to manage that simple manner that seemed so matter of fact before. That signature somehow meant so much less in theory and now, when it was in front of me, I found it meant the world, if only in principle, and I couldn't give it away so freely.
I say I am surprised at my reaction. In truth, I am frustrated with myself. It took little work today to wake up on the right side of the bed, and that is not always the case. Most days it takes an effort to put a smile on, to sing along on the radio and keep that tune stuck in my head all day. I have missed that part of myself, the bit that makes me hop and skip and sing at random times, the energy that pulsed beneath my surface sometimes just jumping out, leaping even despite my best intentions, wanting to spread beyond my person at every chance. Today was one of those rare days, when a soundtrack played in my brain and I was humming in the elevators and could feel the life thrumming back into my veins. It didn't take much to trip me up, and in that one feather-light piece of paper, the weight of that minutiae exceeded the whole ton of light that I had accumulated.
My husband calls it, "Precariously Balanced." He labeled this quirk in my personality years ago. It applied to more than my daily attitude in our lives, labeling a mantra in my cleaning style, my packing persona, my organizational aura. It drove him crazy the way I worked my world. It seemed like organized chaos to me, the stacking of sheaves of scraps of my life to save for later, and I'd place them on the edge of a table, on the brim of a bowl. My emotions were probably layered the same way, each resting on another and all settled but swaying. I never meant for them to be tippable, and for me they were not. Naturally and in a smooth move, like a magician, I could easily swipe one piece from the center of these places, taking only the one I wanted and not disturbing the rest.
For my husband, however, these were perilous piles. He has always described feeling like a bull in a china shop, lumbering about in a pitiful ballet, attempting to walk on eggshells around me, pirouetting in an unpredictable pattern trying not to bumble into my world and tip it for me. I would be flabbergasted every time he would emerge from the pantry, flustered after toppling boxes, macaroni noodles or frosted flakes raining down from the top shelf where I had set them gingerly, the lids closed. I would giggle a little when I would hear a clatter from the office after a simple request for him to grab me a gift from my stash of trinkets, a puzzle or board game littering the floor and eliciting much huffing and sighing on its way down. In the same way, when pulling a photo album from its perch I would see him scatter dozens of glossy images fluttering like helicopters to the floor, and I would shake my head at him, stooping to scoop the smiling faces and stack them again where they belonged.
It doesn't seem as funny anymore, this balance. I look around and don't see the clutter as a natural habitat for myself or my family. It just looks like a mess. I see the crushed eggshells that he can't avoid, the stacks and piles of life towering ever higher and I know that I am not that magician any longer. Between us, me with the fumbling fingers, no longer svelte and stealthy when I am attempting to cull a single sheaf, and my bull in a crowded china shop, all wary but inadvertently calamitous, we are an accident waiting to happen. In one fell swoop it will all fall down, probably when it is least expected. This grip on reality is precarious now, and the tipping point to happy doesn't have a defined center of gravity like it used to.
I wonder if my girls can feel it, the desperation in the air when we are looking around lately, assessing the work it will take to put order to a system that has never needed it before. I know I can feel it, the anxiety creeping in, knowing that my personality has paid a heavy price when that single signature line can throw the best day away. For tonight, I'll tuck away that request and forget it, put myself to bed and hope that it will all start over again tomorrow just like when the sun came up today. Eventually, enough waking on the right side of the bed, stretching and dressing without needing the snooze should help. Eventually, we can unwind the twisted masses of life and sort them, piece by piece, one breath at a time, into something tempered and permanently manageable.
My alarm went off and I rolled out of bed without needing the snooze. I put my girl back in her own bed before I dressed for work and she stayed asleep while I got ready. I kissed my snoring husband good-bye and peeked at a perfect blood sugar on our oldest before I headed out the door.
I ate the most delectable deep purple plum on my drive, listening to the radio and not even getting annoyed with the silly banter of the morning djs; the drive went quickly and I was smiling and ready to be a nurse when I walked to get my assignment. Put on a unit where I thrive, I was given a great line-up of patients and enjoyed doing the best parts of my job- educating and coordinating care with families. Sitting for all my break times and even a little more, my shift went quickly and I was content at work. I talked about life and smiled and joked. I even told a story about my son without the bitterness that could have accompanied it. I clocked out on time after wishing my patients well and walked with a skip in my step to my car, chatting up a good friend all the way home.
My mood could not have been higher as I sat on the couch tonight after such a great day away from home. My girls all tucked in bed, a bowl of popcorn at my side, I pulled over the stack of mail to peruse. After a birthday invite, a credit card offer, an electrical bill and a clinic reminder, one envelope sat waiting at the bottom of the pile. It was settled on the leather seat next to me, seemingly benign and the return address didn't catch me unawares. I was expecting the label and reached in, only surprised at my reaction really, after reading the words on the papers I had known were coming. A simple signature is all they requested and I balked, reading carefully then folding them up and setting them down unsigned.
Here the world tipped. The balance fell on my day. In the last two hours of the night, I lost all the ground I had gained. A request became personal for me and I lost my grip on the plan I had made to manage that simple manner that seemed so matter of fact before. That signature somehow meant so much less in theory and now, when it was in front of me, I found it meant the world, if only in principle, and I couldn't give it away so freely.
 |
| The mood count for the day from my 6year old. How many mad, happy, sad, or whatever crazy that is on the end. |
My husband calls it, "Precariously Balanced." He labeled this quirk in my personality years ago. It applied to more than my daily attitude in our lives, labeling a mantra in my cleaning style, my packing persona, my organizational aura. It drove him crazy the way I worked my world. It seemed like organized chaos to me, the stacking of sheaves of scraps of my life to save for later, and I'd place them on the edge of a table, on the brim of a bowl. My emotions were probably layered the same way, each resting on another and all settled but swaying. I never meant for them to be tippable, and for me they were not. Naturally and in a smooth move, like a magician, I could easily swipe one piece from the center of these places, taking only the one I wanted and not disturbing the rest.
For my husband, however, these were perilous piles. He has always described feeling like a bull in a china shop, lumbering about in a pitiful ballet, attempting to walk on eggshells around me, pirouetting in an unpredictable pattern trying not to bumble into my world and tip it for me. I would be flabbergasted every time he would emerge from the pantry, flustered after toppling boxes, macaroni noodles or frosted flakes raining down from the top shelf where I had set them gingerly, the lids closed. I would giggle a little when I would hear a clatter from the office after a simple request for him to grab me a gift from my stash of trinkets, a puzzle or board game littering the floor and eliciting much huffing and sighing on its way down. In the same way, when pulling a photo album from its perch I would see him scatter dozens of glossy images fluttering like helicopters to the floor, and I would shake my head at him, stooping to scoop the smiling faces and stack them again where they belonged.
It doesn't seem as funny anymore, this balance. I look around and don't see the clutter as a natural habitat for myself or my family. It just looks like a mess. I see the crushed eggshells that he can't avoid, the stacks and piles of life towering ever higher and I know that I am not that magician any longer. Between us, me with the fumbling fingers, no longer svelte and stealthy when I am attempting to cull a single sheaf, and my bull in a crowded china shop, all wary but inadvertently calamitous, we are an accident waiting to happen. In one fell swoop it will all fall down, probably when it is least expected. This grip on reality is precarious now, and the tipping point to happy doesn't have a defined center of gravity like it used to.
I wonder if my girls can feel it, the desperation in the air when we are looking around lately, assessing the work it will take to put order to a system that has never needed it before. I know I can feel it, the anxiety creeping in, knowing that my personality has paid a heavy price when that single signature line can throw the best day away. For tonight, I'll tuck away that request and forget it, put myself to bed and hope that it will all start over again tomorrow just like when the sun came up today. Eventually, enough waking on the right side of the bed, stretching and dressing without needing the snooze should help. Eventually, we can unwind the twisted masses of life and sort them, piece by piece, one breath at a time, into something tempered and permanently manageable.
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