I show up to the page in many moods. My favorite is the dreamy, playful state where my mind feels free from life’s shackles and I fly. In that state, my broken wings have the strength of a thousand eagles, and on the page, I slice through turbulence with ease. It’s mine—every thrust, every dive, the invincibility.
Tonight, though, I’m shy, like a child hiding behind a parent, pressing my face under their jacket. Maybe I’m hard to find to the reader like Waldo lost in a page of letters.
Out front, six newly purchased potted plants sit in our largest flower bed, and their placement is not yet final. I’ve gone with a mix of colors and textures: deep purples, soft peaches, and leafy greens. The variety should bring some energy to the space—a color palette I might try in other parts of the yard if it looks right.
I feel a little lost, despite knowing myself well enough to take time to write, to spend time with my family, and to engage in simple entertainment like movies or social media. Still, something feels unfulfilled. Maybe it’s just a passing thought, or maybe it’s something I actually need to change.
Even after connecting with people today, there’s a feeling of separateness lingering. If something is wrong, what is it?
These thoughts rent space in my mind, and I don’t know what to do with them: I want to move to another country, I don’t like myself much lately, and I want to sleep all day and avoid everyone.
The idea of moving comes from frustrations with the cultural and political divides here, the broken healthcare system, and environmental indifference—maybe life somewhere more in tune with my values would soothe my nerves.
The feeling of not liking myself might not be true “dislike” as much as a neutral apathy. The motivation to eat well, go for a walk, learn Spanish, or do something meaningful is at a standstill. It’s indifference, and I worry it could become a habit. The thought of sleeping all day, not talking to anyone, sounds tempting, though I remind myself time is too precious to waste.
Self-consciousness keeps me from being the eagle tonight. I’m more like an ostrich burying its head in the sand—though they don’t actually do that. Growing up, I’d pass ostriches every morning on my way to the bus stop, watching them with their odd behaviors, flaring their wings and racing around in circles, but never burying their heads. One Easter, I got in trouble for throwing jellybeans into their pen—still think that was harmless. I miss our old neighbors who had horses, Wally and Dixie.
My plan is to find an unputdownable novel, to escape into another world for a while. But knowing my high standards, I’m likely to get lost in the maze of “not good enough” books and sit down in frustration. Maybe I’ll pick something everyone knows is great and dive in. I’ve heard Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer might be a solid one to lose myself in.
Here’s to a night of reading, escaping, and maybe finding a little peace.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 