Feeding the Fire

[I wrote this last week as a funny rant, although it's certainly true. What is my deal? Often I wake up with butterflies without any real cause. In talking to friends, I'm not the only one. In fact, my friend Joan and I went into NYC on Sunday to hear author Anne Lamott. Anne spoke of waking up in the morning to find all of her worries sitting, waiting for her, on the bed. "They'd been up for awhile. They'd had their coffee. They were bored and wanted to chat." The audience of 1000 cracked up. We'd all been there...]

I awake this morning to spring sunshine and bird song. I’m cozy in my bed. Casey is coming home today and this evening we’re going to hear Idina Menzel at the Fairfield Theater Company. It’s my writing day and I can’t wait to get started. Classical music is playing on the radio. All is more than well, but my stomach stirs with a tiny, niggling angst.

What is it? What is it? I scan my brain. Is it Eagle Hill’s benefit, my annual spring crunch? Have I neglected anything there? Is everyone else on top of their To-Do lists? Oh, I must remember to call Mick, the tent guy, about the permits. I should write that down and call myself at work and leave a message so I don’t forget to take care of it tomorrow.

Could it be the sorry state of the world? Is the sight of this lovely day, nature going about her business, troubling me because of global warming? Maybe. Is it the Iraq war? It could be that.

That reminds me; I need to get some Barack Obama signs and bumper stickers. I should make a note to call Val and find out where she got hers. In fact, I should volunteer to work for his campaign. As soon as I’m finished writing this, I’ll find out how to contact his headquarters and give them a call. What if I forget?

It’s probably the writing that’s bothering me. I’ve sent essays to Newsweek, The Sun and Chicken Soup and haven’t heard back from any of them. But that could be a good thing, right? If I’m serious about this, I should send pieces out regularly. I’ve got to get those two book proposals ready and research agents and publishers. Do I think this will happen by itself?

In the big picture, am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing? Maybe this anxiety is a sign that I’m not. I make myself crazy trying to read the mind of the Universe. I spoke to a psychic, but didn’t believe her. “Am I on the right path?’” I asked and she said, “yes,” but who is she to know?

Maybe it’s because I haven’t started working on a toast for Dad’s birthday yet. He’s going to be eighty and this is important. What can I say that’s meaningful enough? I’ve got to get on that; it’s a month and a half away!

Hm. That went well. My quick mental search for the source of anxiety’s tiny flicker amassed enough fuel for a roaring blaze. Worrisome thoughts whirl in a tribal dance, tiny warriors waving shields and spears stomping around a brewing cauldron.

I reach for my self-helper of the moment, Dr. Wayne Dyer. He speaks to me through his book, The Power of Intention. He tells me that problems and To-Do lists are unending as long as one is alive. He says I should not take myself so goddamned seriously, and be at ease in my incompleteness.

The little warriors slow their dance. They lower their weapons and take a break.

The only thing that is sure, is now. And now is pretty good.