Here I am.
It's the middle of summer.
Kids in camp.
A new puppy who's thrilled to see me all the time.
Enough air conditioning to keep me comfortable.
Too many sundresses (I didn't know that was possible).
My hair is in a good place.
I'm still relatively sugar free.
I've been on meds for 2 months and the volume on my chronic anxiety has been turned down.
Between yoga and biking I'm in remarkably good shape.
My shoulder's starting to feel better after lots of icing and anti-inflammatories.
We've got 2 weeks at the beach coming up.
Life is good. Really good. I am grateful. My heart is full watching my family blossom.
I am mellow. Often content. More often lazy.
Things I have never been before. And I'm not quite sure how I feel about it.
This is the first time in longer than I can remember that I'm not frenetic about something. Ideas are not whirring through my head, insisting on getting out and making themselves known. In fact, I don't think there are any ideas. I've got projects I could work on, should work on, things that are smart, interesting, thought-provoking, perhaps important, but I can't. Truly can't. I sit down to work and there's no drive. No impetus. No angst to make things happen. Which leads to no satisfaction. No relief or pride at a job well done.
Nothing to talk about at the end of the day.
Nothing to consume me. To thrill me. To fill me.
So, what do I do—stay in this mellow place of placid contentment or let the anxiety back in which drives me?