I've Felt A little Strange Lately...
Almost as though I've fallen slightly out of alignment with the part of myself that normally sees life as beautiful, meaningful and full of possibility.
I've been thinking about how easily our natural rhythms can become replaced by systems, expectations and constant optimization.
I noticed it recently while watching a friend make changes in her life. She's losing weight and feeling good, and there are wonderful things about that—health, longevity, accomplishment, confidence.
At the same time, watching her stirred something in me.
I found myself wondering about the parts of life we sometimes quiet while trying to improve other parts.
Cooking.
Dessert.
Pleasure.
Spontaneity.
The ordinary rituals that make a life feel warm.
I don't know what her experience actually feels like from inside her life. Maybe she's happier than ever.
But the observation made me think about my own relationship with improvement.
When does becoming "better" actually make life better?
And when does the constant project of improving ourselves quietly remove some of the things that made us feel alive?
Maybe I'm especially sensitive to that question because I've been in a funk myself.
My tooth has been hurting.
I've been worried about health insurance and dental care.
I'm waiting to hear back about my health Insurance approval ... or not.
I've traveled, exercised, dealt with applications, taxes and commitments. My body has also been moving through its own hormonal rhythms.
And underneath all of that, I've been questioning myself as a teacher.
Am I doing enough?
I want to know more songs.
I want my circle times to feel richer.
I want to practice stories.
Prepare new lessons.
Organize my videos.
Make information easier to find.
Plan my clubs.
Create a lesson plan every week again, because I remember how valuable that structure was when I worked at the charter school.
None of these things are impossible.
Actually, when I write them down, they're quite simple.
They're things I know how to do.
But when I'm tired, worried or physically uncomfortable, they don't feel simple.
Everything begins to feel heavier.
And that's what I'm noticing today.
The state I'm in changes the way I see my life.
When I'm depleted, my world becomes very small.
I see what isn't finished.
What might go wrong.
What I haven't accomplished.
What I should be doing better.
The future suddenly feels limited, almost as though this is it.
But I know better.
Because even while writing this, I can feel another part of me waking up.
She's still there.
The woman who gets excited.
Who records in the morning.
Who has ideas.
Who wants to make her classroom beautiful.
Who loves learning.
Who wants to create.
Who dreams enormous dreams.
She didn't disappear.
Maybe she has simply been tired.
And today I caught myself returning to her through something incredibly ordinary.
After dropping my daughter off with her friend at Walmart to get materials for something she was making for me, I thought about asking if she wanted to go to Target later to get food coloring.
At first I had responded almost nonchalantly.
Then I noticed myself.
I thought about her.
My beautiful, healthy, amazing daughter.
And suddenly the same ordinary interaction felt completely different.
There was love there.
There was something to appreciate.
There was life happening right in front of me.
I have food at home to cook.
I have a daughter to love.
I have children waiting for me in my classroom.
I have songs I haven't learned yet.
Lessons I can prepare.
A new journal that's making me want to organize my thoughts.
Ideas that haven't disappeared simply because I haven't acted on all of them yet.
Nothing extraordinary had to happen for me to remember any of this.
I simply had to become aware of what was already inside the moment.
Maybe that's part of what observation really is.
Noticing all the pieces that make up one exact moment in time.
Because when I'm disconnected from myself, life feels closed.
Small.
Limited.
As though what I can see right now is all there is.
But when I'm connected—to love, appreciation, possibility, God, myself—something opens.
I dream bigger.
I see further.
I remember that today's circumstances aren't the boundaries of my life.
And perhaps that's something I want to become better at remembering:
Never make permanent conclusions about my life from a temporary state of disconnection.
There will be days when I don't feel inspired.
Days when my body hurts.
Days when I'm worried.
Days when teaching feels harder.
Days when I don't record anything.
Days when the future looks smaller than I know it is.
Those days don't mean I've lost myself.
Maybe the work isn't to stay permanently inspired.
Maybe it's learning how to recognize when I've drifted—and knowing the small things that bring me home.
A journal.
A lesson plan.
Cooking dinner.
Learning a song.
Moving my body.
Looking at my daughter and actually seeing her.
Gratitude.
Prayer.
Creating something.
One day at a time.
I want to remember what love and joy feel like when they're moving through me.
And when I temporarily forget, I want to trust that they're still there.
Waiting for me to tune back in.
