Lessons from a LONG Vacation.

Posted On Jul 20, 2019 By admin With Comments Off

I was off to a bumpy start, knee-deep in what columnist Martha Beck calls “the space between stories.” That bizarre purgatorial neighbourhood where a section in the book of their own lives has run out of words and the next chapter has yet to be written.

The blank page. It can be a waste of a tree, or the morning of prospect. A moment to wonder and be grateful for what was, or a terrifying reminder of the uncertainty of what’s to come.

It is in this space that the fear of the unknown resides, nudging us to mindlessly scribble where the last chapter left off.

The postscript returns us to safety and familiarity. We can remain there in perpetuity, by-passing the blankness of the cavity between. Yet we will always be recurred by what awaits us on the other side.

Truth be told, I have no idea what I’m doing right now, other than being myself. Two months ago, I even pointed out that( simply being me) very difficult to do. I had uploaded the 348 th and final episode of Underground Wellness Radio, written one last email to my customers, and was DONE. Seven years of my life, over.

In hindsight, I had been done for about a year or so. Mentally, at least. I was penning in the postscript, interviewing state experts because it was expected of me. Because I knew I was helping people get their health back. Because I knew I was good at it. And of course, because the money was good. Life-changing, in fact.

But I was expended. The final paragraphs of my Underground Wellness chapter were lifeless chicken scratches. The once-enthusiastic tone had gone dark and mete angry.

“If only … one … more … guest … computes … one … more … menu to the apparently ENDLESS list of menus we already shouldn’t eat, I’m gonna lose my sh* t! ”

It should have never gotten that bad, but it did. And where reference is does, it’s a sure sign that your period is long overdue to be meet its fate with one final span.

With the end of UW Radio I had entered the seat between. What I imagined would be freedom — time to do whatever the blaze I wanted to do, without having to read yet another health book that belied the last — turned out to be the beginning of an existential identity crisis. Who was I?

Underground Wellness wasn’t only a label, it was me. And by my own doing it was gone, forever. What do I supposed to do now?

At first, the time I must be given to do “whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted” swiftly came to be time to think. Too much time to think. I was stuck in my honcho. Work can feel like play when you affection whatever it is you do, but it can also be a distraction from real life matters that need attending to. Remove the distractions and you find yourself eye-to-eye with everything you’ve consciously or unconsciously ignored and grazed aside. But I’ll save that stuff for another post.

Not exclusively did I wonder who I was, but what in the world had happened to me over those seven years? Where did that nice kid from Alameda go? Who the f* ck was this self-important guy who complained about the length of the emails from his steadfast listeners?

“Oh geez. Another 10 -paragraph email with several question marks from a long-time listener. FML! Don’t they know I “ve got things to” do? If I sat now and read supporter mail all day, I wouldn’t get anything done.”

Yeah, that was me. Sorry.

Eventually I acquired myself in a familiar situation — plunked down on my back side getting immersed up by my therapist’s couch. Yeah, the one that feels like it was intentionally designed to build me feel like a small child. Yet I was a full-grown adult living without a purpose for the first time in almost a decade. Deep in the throes of an identity crisis and an obvious addiction to novelty, as be demonstrated by my bia to fill my free time with almost-daily tours to the mall. My nieces is very likely say my closet is on fleek.( Look it up .) My therapist would probably say I was missing the endorphin rush of another “instant classic” podcast episode and replacing it with bubble jackets, scrawny jeans, and Yeezies. Make sense.

Ironically the medicine for my crisis lay in a homeopathic principle I had learned on my previous move; that like panaceas like. That confusion remedies indecision. There is no better place to learn this than in a country you’ve never been, with no one but yourself. When a bird droops you off in an unfamiliar estate, a blank page is all there is. Go with the flow or go home.

Travel is something that I had been putting off for various kinds of silly concludes. I didn’t know anyone who would go with me. I would go when I got a girlfriend. Blah. Blah. Blah. And then there’s my well-chronicled phobia of turbulence and flying in general. But the call to adventure and all of its intrinsic misgivings rang louder than ever. It was time to go, to “re going away”, to jump in the deep end of the pond with no switch or feelings to outcomes. To accept the uncertainty. To “lets get going”.

Splash.

It was a short swim — three days in London and three more in Rome.( You can see the pics here .) Yet it was all I needed to loosen into my gap between narrations. To include a little color to that space, off-white page. To turn off the endless chatter going on in my ability and cause infinite for the sweet-sounding interlude playing between my heart’s songs.

It had been nearly a year since my heart had last sung. Since then, everything had been about control and outcomes. How much will it cost? How countless people can we register? How much will it perform?

I was caught up in what Dr. Lissa Rankin, author of The Anatomy of a Calling, calls Small Self service. Ego-driven work with no heart. Self-depleting service leading to anger, burnout, and identity dilemmas. Ignore it and it will beat you down. Shift it and the possibilities become endless.

Like I said, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m exactly where I was when I started Underground Wellness, with a strong will to serve and a confidence that God, the Universe, the aliens( or whomever or whatever you believe in) will guide me along the road to where I’m going from here.

Don’t get me wrong, I have purposes. Big, hairy, impudent points, as columnist Jim Collins would say. The end is clear. It’s the planned that isn’t.

For now, I’m perfectly content to read books and interrogation the authors for the rest of the year. That’s the song I can play on repeat. The one I love.

Everything else, I’ll have to figure out along the way. I guess we’ll figure it out together.

What I know for sure is that if I was intended to free, I’ve got to be me. That everything will be okay.

Out of the blank space. Onward to a brand-new section. A brand-new story.

Page one.

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