Epiphanies, existential angst, and other ephemera

 I had a moment this morning in front of the Christmas tree that brought me right back to my second grade desk. Damn these mindfulness moments.

So there I was, head on desk, ear pressed to the wood. The teacher is talking, but I'm not following the lesson. I'm focused on the fact that my ear pressed to the desk is not unlike pressing my ear to a seashell and hearing the ocean. If my name is being called, I'm not hearing it. I tap the desk with my fingertips, the sound reverberating through the wood.  I lift my head and notice the tapping is just that...and not the thunderous thing I just experienced with my ear to the desk.

This kind of explains my grades that year. My dad had died right before school started, and the funeral was on my first day, so I missed it. Except in my head, my dad wasn't dead--I hadn't gotten there yet, wouldn't get there for another couple years.  He was just...elsewhere. 

And then I'm back, looking up at the tree, pondering what constitutes reality, whether I am real or a figment of someone's imagination, and there I am again in that snake eating its tail moment in second grade.

I'm not sure where these thoughts and exercises are taking me. Some of the stuff coming up lately I haven't considered in years. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to gain by any of it. Perspective?

Not for nothing, things have changed. I'm in a new position with a new company learning all the things, and I am finishing up my last quarter with the nonprofit. I had a presentation that went well--better than I expected, and have had some good conversations over the last couple of days. The stuff that used to get my anxiety amped up is barely making a dent, which is kind of strange, but I'm happy for the relative peace.  The kids are all right. Gotta get elder off his carrot, but I won't do that over night. Younger asked me to watch a movie with him the other night; and since he doesn't ask me to do much with him any more, I jumped on the chance. And it was a nice evening spent with him.

"Won't you cuddle with me, mom?"  he asked this literally every night until some point in middle school. And I did, because he's the baby and because I wanted to hang onto that as long as I could. I read Ungifted and Moby Dick to him--those were the last bedtime stories, and I stretched out Moby Dick, because I knew that was The End.

Ah.

Part of my presentation today talked about planning for the future. The moderator talked about the constant planning, the next thing, the next thing, and I stopped her: "Be sure you stop and savor the accomplishments," I reminded them. "You get wrapped up in the next goal, and the next goal, and while it's all gotta get done, give yourself a moment to savor what you did."

"And thank your village," the moderator put in.

"Always," I agreed. "You get together to talk about what's wrong, you need to get together and celebrate what went right. Because that's everyone's win."

We all need to take a moment. Or as many as we need.