I feel a quiet tension, when she makes her presence known. She’s been nudging me to read Pinkola-Estes’ “Women Who Run with the Wolves” again, saying that I still had much to learn. I’d gotten a hundred some-odd pages read and stalled. I don’t question her certainty; I know she is right. Perhaps this is the midlife crisis they mentioned in my youth, the one everyone spoke of with such dread. There is as much time behind me as there is left before me. A time to evaluate where I’ve been and where I’ve yet to go.
I had one of those days today. It started out with a lot of soul-searching about relationships, and escalated, before even getting to 7:30AM, into a “scene” with one of my co-workers. It wasn’t much of a scene, as scenes go, since she was doing most of the “scening” and in some strange, inexplicable way, it unfolded in a sort of alternate reality-I managed to insult her with my jocularity; my attempt to lighten the tension with comic relief was met with angry disdain; she felt ridiculed. First I apparently insulted her by inadvertently excluding her (after I’d just asked if I could get her something downstairs in the cafeteria-how dare I not know that she was joining us for the walk down?!) Not my intention, of course, and had she not been in a haze of self-pity and lack of proper measure of self-esteem, that would have been apparent to her, and the “look” I got would not have prompted me to explain why I had had the audacity to suggest that I pick something up for her… and I tried to chide her back into a better humour; didn’t work. As it was, what had already started off as one of those days went from bad to worst. So I shut up like a clam and spent the better part of the morning trying to keep my emotions in check, mostly due to my earlier ruminations about the direction my life was presently in, and not so much the “scene”, but that just added a final component. A bit of self-pity was joining in on my party, too.
Wild woman is telling me to run away so that I can find myself. Of course, being who I am, I am trying to figure out how best I can run away in spirit, without having to go anywhere. Maybe it’s time to hop on my bike again and get back “into” my body… and feel the saddle sore again, or lift some weights and feel the lactic acid burn. Maybe exercise will do the trick; at least for now. I’ve been angry at my body for ballooning and turning into this inflated mass that it’s become. It is time to gather it with love and come to terms with it; the excess is simply insulation… I know that on a visceral level.
And all this to say… some mellow with age, and come into their own, like a fine wine; others never ripen. They rot on the vine and fall off, their purpose unfulfilled or unknown… reaching a sour and bitter end. I hope that my life will ripen into the fruity richness of a good bottle of Sangiovese… and not sour (like others’ I’ve seen) into cider vinegar.