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Finding flow

The dark, early morning creeps in like a thief.  Four-thirty AM likes my company.  And, my body betrays me, almost without fail, by answering its call.

True, some days it comes at six or three.  Now and then, I can manage to effectively snooze myself through another hour or so.  And, at least, try to frame my mind to direct the flow before the deluge of thoughts seeking communication hits.  Some days, I manage to channel a few different streams with some focus in short spells.  Others, I can capture the tail of a dragon and fly with it for hours.  Days even.

And, then, there are those days when my eyes open, I sit upright and I get completely flattened.  I’ve had more than a few of them lately.  Mind you, those days were the norm for a very long time.  It took three years of therapy before I could feel safe enough to merely hope for some joy.  Let alone actually experience it as I have in the past few weeks.  Auto-pilot engaged early in my life and has had me floating in an anaesthetic haze for decades.

This morning, the wave knocked the wind out of me again.  But, I stood firm against it. Managed to catch my breath.  I have actually accomplished several “real world” tasks.  Not the least of which has been actually eating breakfast.  A vital piece of self-care that I had etched into my routine as deeply as rising early.  Yet, unlike my relentless internal alarm, it fell away and has been one of the most difficult pieces to reintegrate as I rebuild my days.

I have no doubt that the nourishment has largely influenced my productivity.  However, it is the initial and continued flow control that I am experiencing that has me most delighted at the moment.  Most of the things that I am dealing with today are the things that put me in the worst mental holding patterns.  It is fear of them that blocks me.  As that fear falls away, I learn to regulate the flow and the flood of panic moves closer and closer to becoming a scenic river running forward.  An adventure over raging rapids and out through babbling brooks that, inevitably, empty into pools.  Some deep and dark.  Some warm and inviting.  All reflective, with their stories to share.


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