Alchemic Verse

The ten days since I arrived have been whiplash between speedy movement and total arrest, with a lot of time spent on introspection and adjusting to my return to work. I’ve been struggling with my sleep, naps and overnight sleeping both being filled with inscrutable dreams that when I wake have my heart racing, cold sweat condensed on my brow, and my inner narrator pondering feverishly what my subconscious could be trying to tell me. I’m debating a whole blog sub category for recurring dreams at this point; maybe the internet can make better sense of the clips sent by my subconscious and their messages than I can.

I’ve been doing the things that I have learned with experience are helpful to regulate my nervous system and bring my body back into balance, which I’ll describe not just to remember but also to share, possibly with some repeats, in case any treasured reader may benefit. It starts with breathing exercises, specifically square/box breathing. Inhale a 4-count, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4 and repeat. Daily, I’m making sure to take in even more water and invest in nutritional improvement like green smoothies, particularly helpful when my stomach feels like a fist and the idea of eating or cooking sounds like a curse. Slow time has been spent out back appreciating the sunlight filtering through the autumn leaves, tracing the maze of vines that climbs the thick sentinel trees along the fence with my fingertips.

The backyard has proffered sights like the shell carapaces discarded by numerous cicada, the pure white feathers of the neighbor’s chicken floating through the fence, the moss and vine ground cover that sprawls beneath a bed of crisp leaves repeatedly soaked by downpours and dried in prevailing sunlight. The property has several old towering trees forming its perimeter, each of which begs to be climbed though I resist – knowing without asking that the folks from whom I am renting would prefer I refrain. There’s a fair amount of firewood heaped in a circular concreted pit, though I fear the aforementioned downpours would require extensive drying for any of it to light. Taking the time to slow down, I engage the senses and become curious to notice what I otherwise ignore when focused on entreating my dog to poop already so I can get back to work; it enables being more present and mindful, another regulator of the chatterbox mind and hummingbird heart.

Unfortunately, those same downpours prevented me from witnessing the peak of the Orionid meteor shower, which if I’m honest with myself I would not have been capable of clinging to consciouness to appreciate, or of rising prior to dawn to spectate, even if the sky had been clear. Nonetheless, increasing my time away from a computer screen and outside has proven positive. The deck offers an uncomfortable and typically wet bench chair, so I prefer to sit on the stairs either cross legged or with my feet hanging over into the Creeping Charlie (Glechoma hederacea).

Through journaling, and reviewing old journal entries, I have been able to remind myself that even as the unnatural gravity of stress presses down, I am strong enough now that it doesn’t cause me total collapse like before. Journaling (and now blogging) has been a focus for me since childhood, always eager to chronicle my existence, my own autobiography of primary sources, something indelible that proves I existed – that I lived. From the Lisa Frank Sparkle-Dolphin diary with categorically overkill combination lock, to the suitably gothy velvet black dragon with impractical black paper journal, and endless other notebooks 10-40% filled, I have proof of what it was like where my memory blurs the lines or where traumatic experiences were blotted out completely.

Depending on your perspective, reviewing old journal entries can bring up latent dark memories or serve as an instructive tutor of the growth you’ve experienced, or both. The troubles that 10, 14, 16, 19-year-old me thought she wouldn’t live through are now so distant, many long-resolved worries and half-forgotten names and faces living as the primary antagonists on pages rippled from tearful scribing all those years ago. The review can also show the origin story of persisting wounds that remain under-addressed, overt or hidden, worthy of compassionate attention and the resolution to heal them. Much like human history, individual history unheeded repeats itself.

A thick cloud of dread slipped into my heart sometime Sunday afternoon, after returning from a lovely outing with an old friend I care about deeply and the introduction of a new friend that I met through her. There was no discernible reason for that heaviness to come into play after a weekend well spent, but we ride the waves logical or otherwise. In 4, hold 4, out 4, hold 4…

I had a deep headache last night flailing between my ears and behind my eyes, throbbing with the soaring pitches and dynamics of “The Flower Duet” playing on repeat in my head; the 6/8 signature made challenging the attempts at box breathing. Yesterday’s extended work day where my energy was expended primarily on defending myself, felt like a sort of climax to the twisty slide of nonsense carried in by the tense tide of that mysterious dread. Reeling in unfairness, I trust that my apprehension and anxiety will feel like a blip, there and gone on the radar of the bigger picture when I review this blog in the future. With closed eyes, I used voice to text to chronicle much of this content, and maybe in some years, I’ll look back on this blog entry, proud of how I overcame the crises that feel nearly insurmountable in the present.

Last night, a long drive west admiring a navy blue sky and tangerine sunset, a nutritious smoothie, compliments from strangers, a beloved acoustic lullaby, and cuddling my dog to sleep carried me to the dawn. Today gifted my first nap without a nightmare, after which I reviewed journal entries from early this year, marveling at all I had forgotten even in that short intervening time, the letters balancing current perspectives against past truths. The look back paints the past 10 months and change with brutal but potent honesty, surfacing what had been buried in the blur of trying to restart my life. That perspective drives me to chronicle again tonight what in some weeks, months, years I may not remember – the proof that I live.