Weight of the World
Foreboding accumulates overnight. Is it just me? Upon waking, it is waiting for me like a blanket that has doubled or tripled in weight while I slept. It's not emotional depression, but more of a ponderous, intellectual one. Digging out requires physical motion, feet to floor, one step after another. The fog starts to dissipate as I move through it but doing so requires an intentional effort. The source is a mystery. It is perhaps tied to juggling so many professional responsibilities, the current national unraveling, the greater perspective of age. Shower, food, then emerging from my apartment, regardless of the weather, tends to dissipate any remaining vestiges; the sensory sensations of simple motion provide a reliable antidote; sun, wind, sky. But I must want to move. Stasis is its own powerful Siren, its sameness so perfectly reassuring however much I may be suffering. "Change making" tends to sound more enticing and appealing than the actual marathon slog it can demand. Even clients that hire us to help them evolve rarely appreciate how invested they are in the familiarity of their status quo. At some point the grip on the comfortable, however dysfunctional past must be relinquished, and new, less certain actions and behaviors pursued. I crave predictability as much as anyone but have learned through imposed experience where to find it and where not. The wind rushes by my face as I guide the e-bike down the otherwise empty street. That morning heaviness is no match for the light touch and high reward of the power-assisted pedaling. As I head to work, I think that if I could instantly and effortlessly go from bed to bike I would.
