I've been struggling to find the peace within myself, maybe for weeks or months now; some days it feels more like years. I've circled the "answers" in various forms, finding glimpses of blue sky, but my black cloud remains in sight more often than not, hanging low with heavy drizzle for days on end. The nerve in my back was keeping me from sleeping. The caffeine in my diet that was keeping me on edge. The lack of personal voice in my current writing work was making me feel invisible. The ever increasing complexity of my self-imposed to-do list was bogging me down, turning the focus of my life into check marks on pieces of paper. I was too connected. I was not connected enough.
On Sunday I caught a glimpse of myself; the self I like to think of as the real me. This is the person I spend time and effort pretending to be when my actual self eludes me. I started the morning with some reluctant cleaning. After an initial struggle, something within me released and I let myself dive so deeply that the passing of time went unnoticed. The kitchen, the bathroom, the floors and that scary space beneath the couch cushions soon sparkled. The laundry was folded and the dust, in general, was less thick. I didn't finish my list and for the first time in ages, I truly didn't feel stressed about it in the slightest.
I was still -- inside -- on a deeper level than I had managed in a long, long time.
On Monday morning, I woke to find that the balance was still there. My internal desire and my external action felt coordinated -- in sync. Perhaps I have found my flow again. For three days now, I have not cared what time it is, I have simply been content to be, and do, and be some more. (Well, there was that moment at 3am this morning when the cat was determined to let me know that the food that was in her bowl was not fresh enough.)
Perhaps I had simply let that space where I store my tranquility get too cluttered. I've learned this lesson before, and each time I hope I'm learning it deeper.