There is a time and place, and I have reached a new time and a new mental place. Something shifted. At my tender age, it’s a miracle that I can still change. It’s time to not worry about other people and what they think of me. I thought I was supposed to do great things all the time, like cure cancer or fly to the moon. I am free to de-institutional-ize my daily schedule and do whatever I want. I am out to pasture. Except I felt guilty every single minute I am not out there making a gigantic difference in the world.
My friend’s sister-in-law also feels like she’s supposed to do great things twenty-four/seven. As soon as you’ve put down your Thanksgiving fork, she’s sweeping it up for the next course of pie, because she can’t waste any more time on a meal. I do the exact same thing.
No time to pet the cat, got things to do. Like Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s Cradle” song, I raised my children in hurry hurry energy, and it’s rather sad to see my efforts in the next generation. My sons are so busy, no time to breathe or feel anything, go go and more go. I’m still in that energy pattern, except it’s not really who I am. I’ve been a stooge for thinking I was supposed to be great all the time.
My oldest son asked me a few years ago if it wasn’t good enough to work your butt off in a good job and live without the fantasy of greatness. I hear that. He’s experiencing aspects of my frantic energy as an adult. Maybe he’d be different without a mother like me. I played a big part in creating his panic to be worthy.
I don’t want fifteen minutes of fame. I don’t want to run a marathon or jump off a tall building into fire. I can barely sit in this chair and write this. After all, it IS Christimas time. I should be out spending money on stuff you don’t want.