Over the last few weeks, I've let the cracks in my psyche grow over with routine. I am nourished by good words, spoken and written and sung, and by good company. I tried to visually approximate how my days tend to stack up:
Eliot, stop looking so pleased with yourself. As soon as you open your eyes,
you're going to get distracted by a bird outside and flip the eff out.
Aside from my doodle-doing direly needing work and desperately needing a defined style... this is about right. Not necessarily in this order, but these are the devils, the details, of my days.
The irksome-but-painfully-loved Eliot.
The books.
The running and strengthening of my body.
The healthy food (so much fruit, you guys).
The less-healthy food (well, red wine has antioxidants, so all you free radicals can suck on that).
The tea, the coffee.
The doodling and sometimes-art.
The writing.
The music music music.
And The Future.
That Box O' Future weighs heavily, but Eliot's ears (and my shoulders) seem to be handling the load, more or less. I'm getting pretty interested in a few Masters of Arts in Teaching (MAT) programs, and depending on my state of mind, the prospects are either a balm or a briarpatch in my little crisis. A crisis which, at 25, I'm learning to accept as acceptable.
The cracks are still there, of course - tiny fissures and fine lines in the underbrush - but I feel comfortably me again, and that's a lovely thing.
I'm warming up, just in time for Spring.
