Homeward Bound
June’s theme is “boundaries.”
Cabin fever is real for me right now. I’ve been holding up well these past few months, but now that my husband has a more regular work schedule, I’m not as easily distracted and I have no one in the house to talk to but my dog and two cats and they don’t say much.
Overall, I’m an introvert and staying at home by myself isn’t that big of a deal. Yet, the physical boundaries in place due to the pandemic have highlighted my restlessness. With no job in sight, I feel like I’m spinning my wheels looking for my purpose. In our society, purpose is often associated with career - something I gave up a little over four years ago when I left academia for good.
I do reach out to friends, but the physical boundaries and distances between us make me feel more isolated and disconnected than I have in a long time. I find myself tuning in too much to my social media accounts to find out what all of my friends and family are doing until my phone feels more like a prison as opposed to a viewfinder into the world.
Along with being an introvert, I am reflective by nature. Translation: I am in my head. A lot. I reason, contemplate, ponder, imagine, analyze, and calculate. Escapism through the mind helps me not feel so limited in my surroundings. The price I pay for that is I neglect my body. A few days ago, for example, I was at home (as usual) and felt a tightness in my middle back that caused me to have shooting pains in my left glute muscle. I’ve experienced this before on my right side. My first thought was just that: a thought. “What if I become disabled?” spun inside my brain along with other gloom and doom thoughts. I so desperately wanted to escape my body’s pain but realized there was no real distraction that could alleviate it. Gone are the days (for now at least) where I could shop away my frustrations, hang out at a coffee shop and people watch, or meet a friend at a restaurant to vent about life.
So, I stayed home. My boundary. My world at this moment in time. I unrolled my yoga mat and stepped onto it with my bare feet. I centered my attention on moving my breath and my awareness to each place in pain. Deep breath in, deep breath out. My breathing rhythm slowed way down and my body began to organically move through a vinyasa flow. Slowly. Deliberately. I moved with my breath and placed my hands and feet in each pose as if each body part was like thick honey. I noticed where the tension was connected to each anxious thought. I realized my shoulders were near my ears because my brain believed that was a neutral position. I guided myself to release and let go. Surrender to the moment. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Slowly. Deliberately. I practiced this way for two days, took Extra Strength Tylenol and used my heating pad. Two days later, all of my pain left my body.
What does this all mean? I’m going out on a limb here but in my microcosmic world I am subverting what has always been culturally ingrained in me (in all of us probably): to do more, achieve, and be on the go equals success. You’re “doing life right” if you’re pushing yourself to constantly be in motion. Yet, what happens when this is the only way of life in which we engage? Burn out. Pain. Overheating of the brain that transfers into anxiety.
When I think about how each time I’ve moved more into stillness here at home, I see that my life has become richer. My creativity is flourishing (I finished my novel and published a poem for goddess’s sake!). My gardening is becoming my therapy. I’m saving money and able to give it to meaningful organizations and put it towards things that really matter to me. I’m finding more time to search out resources that teach me more about myself and what it means to have a privileged life. I’m opening up to the sacredness that is boredom. The pink glow of my salt lamp soothes me. The blossoming of my plants out my window thrill me. The sweetness of my 19 year old cat on my lap nourishes me.
I’m coming home to myself more and more each time I slow down and don’t resist what is right in front of me. I tend to the leaky sink faucet and change the laundry from the washer to the dryer. The whirring of the dishwasher soothes me. I have to accept the macro-cosmic reality that the world outside my door is burning; I am not scared of the unfolding it is bringing. I am in my body’s home and I am grateful for that gift unto itself.