I’m lying on the floor with my feet straight up in the air, and my fingers are hovering next to my temples. After discovering how calming peripheral vision can be for my nervous system, I couldn’t care less about how goofy I might look. What matters most is the comfort I feel in my body.
I stumbled upon a new tagline I’m trying out, or perhaps an email sign-off or even a pre-mic-drop moment. It’s “Happy regulating.” After a session it rolled off my tongue effortlessly, catching a client by surprise, and even myself. I got a confused look, and I had to explain it, “You know, like regulate your nervous system”. Which if I have to explain it means I likely need a different tag-line, right?
Still, it’s no wonder that with my newfound interest in all things physical regulation, makes my younger self that knows every word of Warren G’s “Regulate” very happy. How about if I ever get a chance to do a TedTalk on trauma and physiology, I’ll reach out to his team to see if he could open it for me. Now that would be stellar.
I use words like “sick” and “cool,” and I worry about dating myself, not in the sense of having a romantic dinner like I did an hour ago with a beef chalupa at El Charro’s restaurant next door, but in the sense of getting older. Why do I care so much about staying relevant (I almost said “hip,” but who knows if that’s still jiving?) Maybe it’s not that important anyway, as it’s really about my worry of not belonging. But I do belong. I’m firmly anchored in my body, bobbing my head to the instrumental jam called “Summer in Japan” by Yusei on the floor in my office, writing this and feeling great.
I had a tremendously helpful follow-up conversation with a telemarketer and even paid them $200. You are likely as surprised as my “Uh, I’m skeptical” husband, but rest assured, I feel confident they understand my vision in revamping my website. My website will merge my personal blog with my professional website, which makes sense, as my project manager Sid pointed out: “They are not separate!” He’s right. This is who I am. Mental health and I go together like peas and carrots.
Oh, darn, a text message just spiked my stress. Whereas I was at a 1, the demanding request sent me to a 5. Which is just great because I get all the chaotic thoughts that come with it too. I’m now wiggling my fingers double-time at the side of my face and doing Kegels to release tension in my pelvis, which engages my calming parasympathetic system. Clench, release. If you’ve never done it, try to stop your pee, then let it go. That release is the relaxation a quick way to calm down.
I’m now listening to Day 50 of a 100-day writing challenge done by my podcaster Tim Clare. I’ve done a few, not necessarily in order, but today’s question to ponder and write on the topic, “What do you value?”
Specifically, he’s asking what I value in my writing what feels good and what doesn’t. Start the clock for ten minutes, and here I go.
I can say without a doubt that last night, writing was painful. It felt like squeezing out the last bit of toothpaste from the tube with no backup in sight. I stared into the void, panicking but hopeful to be rescued by a majestic unicorn with glistening wings and a soft, velvety muzzle that nudged me to float upon its back. With my savior (that never came), I could soar like Atreyu on the Luck Dragon, above lands, overseas, cutting through the wind, my hair whipping behind me.
My writing feels good when I free myself, when I push forward with the eyes of a knowing parent, saying, “Go on. You’ve got this.” I do it unaware of scrutiny. I fall into a state meant only for one but also for all, a state of connection that is both personal and universal, where there is nothing else. I am alive, breathing in and out like the ocean rushing through a hole in a rock and crashing back out. The spray catches the sun’s rays in its arms, dancing gracefully, dipping and twirling.
I value what I find when I go there. I value the presence of my mind and body, accessing a lifetime of catalogs. There’s a feeling of sadness, and I’m at the front of the church, dressed in a colorful striped shirt. I turn and look behind me, recognizing some faces and not others. Every seat is filled, and people are standing, crowded like sardines in the foyer. I’m more interested in the sea of colors than the people dressed in black. “I don’t want people to wear black,” she had told me, like discussing a preference for a burger. It was just a preference. She didn’t know she’d pass away at 44, but she did. Somehow, I remembered what she’d said, and the ripple effect of telling a couple led to others. At 16 years old, after the sudden and unexpected death of my mom, I experienced a sense of calm and pride at that sea of color. I did that, I thought and it felt incredible.
I write because it connects us to something that is like the fountain of youth, except it’s a fountain of life-giving ecstasy. And I can’t – won’t – ever get enough.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 