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Movement is magic when your soul is lost, one step at a time
The other day I spent much time stressing about what to do, where to go, and how to decide.
I still have those questions, but there is something to movement and action. I am placing one foot in front of the other, baby steps, my favorite steps.
This morning as I was laying in bed feeling sorry for myself, eating leftover pizza and downing a cappuccino from the coffee bar downstairs, I had a realization come over me, not a surprise, but one that set my whole day at ease.
My grief about leaving the mountain yesterday was so palpable I thought I would have to get off the bus; I had a panic attack. I have never been one for anxiety or panic attacks, so this was a first for me.
I thought, is this what it feels like?
I then proceeded to cry for 4 hours on the bus; thank goodness no one was sitting next to me; they would have thought I was having a nervous breakdown, and I also thought I was.
But dang, a night being pampered and complaining to anyone who would listen helped. I have been watching Handmaid’s Tale. I read the book a few years ago, and now it’s a series of over four parts, and I am almost finished, but how can I feel awful while watching that?
