Mornings come ever brighter these days. Today’s dawn flew in on gusts of winds, unsettling dreams. A shaky foundation to the day, all this whirling light, but the cocoon of grime on the windows left by past seasons blunts edges, be they that of the garden gone wild beyond the frame or be they that of anxiety, from inside the mind caught in the vise of quotidian worries over the past and unbridled anticipation of a future never to materialize.
And yet, in spite of all this pervasive blurriness in high winds, I managed to stop working today long enough to work out the problem that had me working so hard the last two days that I was intimately reacquainted with the kind of headache that had me quitting jobs before.
What the winds couldn’t blow away, and what the grime couldn’t conceal, and what the light couldn’t wash out of this day is that old saw about listening to your gut. Or neck muscles, if they are the recipients of the kind of torque applied by your job, friends, or family that goes against your common sense, your integrity, and especially your soul. If the steam builds the pressure, it doesn’t mean that your only option is to blow. Nope, you can take all that energy and run with it.
Of course, it doesn’t mean that your boss or family or friends will climb aboard your train. But if they derail it with turning on red lights, even if it is obvious that the convoy is headed in the right directions and speedily to its destination, the train wreck becomes their problem.
