Run, Laugh, Roll My Eyes, Repeat

Lake Sylvia, my favorite running spot

My stomach burns almost constantly these days. It feels like hunger, as if I wrapped myself in a project and worked through lunch. I eat, and the burn subsides for a bit. But it comes back, and I realize that it's not hunger after all. The burn spreads to my chest. Angst? Fear? Anticipation? Um, heartburn?

I need an anthem to give purpose to this sensation. It feels like the prelude to a crisis, anticipation of something momentous. But momentous never follows. Just the burn in my chest, the weight in the pit of my stomach and hours awake at night. No feverish worry. Just wakefulness and a longing for sleep. Pointless, really.

This anxiety has no cause that I can identify. I have decided to chalk it up to hormones, annoying but manageable, at least for now. Occasionally, it leaves me wringing my hands, an attempt to calm the baseless fear that sometimes descends on me, the brief but intense frustration at feeling out of control.

Sometimes, usually on Monday mornings, I awake feeling wholly unprepared to face the day. I lie in bed and pray for peace, for courage. It sounds, and feels, so dramatic. It's not. I crawl out of bed, and by the time I have finished brushing my teeth, I feel capable. I drag myself out for a run, and after six painfully slow miles on the trail I even feel hopeful.

I never quite understood anxiety before. (I probably still don't.) Nor did I comprehend the concept of hope. Anxiety, I could definitely live without. But hope? It feels good. And it makes sense, even if just on a mundane, but essential, level. Feeling gratitude for muttered Monday morning prayers, muddy trails and the critical ability to laugh at myself.

Hello Again, Little Blog

I watched a movie this afternoon, somewhat guiltily, I must confess. I should have spent the time in more productive pursuits, but the movie made me weep, and I found that I needed the tears. More than that, I welcomed the emotion and the resulting desire to somehow frame that emotion in images and words.

I write for a living. For hours each day, I sit at my desk in my upstairs office and bleed words onto the screen. I have discovered a certain mastery of the art of sounding knowledgeable about topics that actually interest me very little.

And yet, for all of the writing I do, I express very little. And as a woman of a certain age, caught up in a chaotic and bizarre dance of hormones, I desperately need expression. I need to explore how I feel about marriage at a crossroads, about watching my parents fade away and knowing with terrible certainty that dementia will find its way to my own door, as well.

I have always found myself through words. The syllables and phrases allow me to frame the world around me and make it my own. Perhaps writing gives me a sense of control. More likely, since control is illusive at best, writing strikes a deeper chord that might just awaken my sense of self after its little mid-life nap.

And so, I find my way back to a neglected blog. My chocolate moonrise has been waiting patiently for me to put aside my disdain of mommy bloggers and posers and simply write for the sake of writing. Hello again, little blog. I've missed you.