Let me start, as I so often do now, with regrets and apologies about why I haven’t blogged over the last few weeks or months. The ego (mine) says that you’re all waiting for that, and by extension for me.
Eckhart Tolle (The Power of Now I know, not everyone loves his tone) tells me that in being regretful I’m denying the present – living nowhere near Now, not next door to Now, or around the corner from Now. Regret doesn't even offer a view of Now. He’s right. Which means, not that I should simply stop yapping about feeling bad, but actually not feel bad, which is a massive stretch for me. It’s what I do.
I like guilt and regret, a lot. Or maybe we’ve just been hanging around together so long, it feels like I like them. They’re shitty friends actually. They want to spend all day watching reruns of The Facts of Life and Knot’s Landing then feel bad about sitting around watching reruns of The Facts of Life and Knot’s Landing.
Eckhart says guilt and regret hold me back, like way back in the past.
Anxiety and worry are my other pals. Hey hey, Aviva, what are you doing? Oh come on that’s boring, come out and catastrophize with us for a while. And it’s easy to convince myself I’m getting exercise. It’s like the extreme sport of dreaming up the worst thing that can possibly happen. Exciting. Adrenalin pumping.
Panicking is something I can always get it up for. Eckhart tells me that I’m hanging out in the future, the neighbourhood of what if, no view of Now from there either.
So I’ve gotten myself a real estate agent and I’m looking around for some vacation property in Now. (Well you don’t expect me to live there full time do you? I’ve got shit to do.)
But here’s the thing. There’s always, always something or something else to keep me from Now. Next week I have an MRI scan and the week after that I have a CT scan. No one else is worrying. But I am. Setting a new post-treatment baseline. That’s what Dr B tells me. They’re not looking for anything bad or expecting anything bad, not that you can know. NOT THAT YOU CAN KNOW.
My gums have been bleeding lately and I’ve had a low-grade headache on and off for a few weeks. I’ve added them to the lymphoma symptom list. Actually those crappy friends anxiety and worry made me do it. I didn’t want to, I just had to. (No you didn’t. Yes I did. No you didn’t. Yes I did – Well even if I didn’t, I did. Yes you did. That’s not funny. Yes it is.)
I’m up at the cottage alone for a few days, writing, reaching for peace, sniffing the air, jumping in the lake, writing some more.
I went for a run this morning. Very hilly. Very proud. I was on my way back, not far at all from the cottage when the dog from the marina came running out at me barking his head off. I know this dog. He’s a barker, not a biter, so I’m not worried but I’m trying to talk him down with one of those doggy solicitation voices. Hello, come on boy (hold out the hand) come on. He won’t take the bait. Yap, yap, yap.
The owner is standing a ways away near a boat and I’m trying to ask her how she is, but the dog won’t stop yapping. Two minutes she lets him go on. Finally she calls out “Get the rock, go on get the rock!” The dog instantly turns and wagging his tail runs back past her, ostensibly looking for his rock.
“That always distracts him,” she says. (Let’s not discuss why she let him go on that long. That’s not the point.)
Point is, I need a rock. I need my rock. I need that thing I’d so much rather be doing right now than yapping my head off about what was and what will be. Is the rock my Now? Is it just a distraction? Does it matter?
Life offers up so many options for tattoos. This one’s my new favourite
Get the rock Aviva! Get the rock.