How do you unwind after a demanding day?
My cousin-in-law is scuba certified, and last week dove at the Atlanta Aquarium. The oxygen leaving his tank was considerably less than that of his fellow divers, he told me, and attributed it to his breath. Four beats in, a pause for four beats, then eight beats out. He drew an imaginary square in the air, four for each edge.
I’ve been breathing like that. And when the day is at a lull, I revisit what’s too much.
Having a 6-year-old means activities: Scouts, baseball, friends, and trips. Too much exists in others’ family dynamics (yelling, indifference), and the time requirements. It’s all normal stuff. Sometimes, too much is because I didn’t follow through with my gut, or not taking a break when chaos and disorganization peak.
Unwinding is partially doing a physical action like running, digging in the dirt, or baking bread or hamburger buns.
But more so, it’s unwinding the pretzel of my mind. It’s the plan of how I want to and will respond to protect my peace.
One example of which I’m proud was at the Cub Scout trip. An impromptu fishing trip with a gaggle of stick-carrying and too-eager, scratched-up-faced kids led to a ditch of a pond, a far cry from the wider, lake-like imagining. When asked when they could fish, the scoutmaster asked the kids repeatedly, “You must be patient,” as none of the four poles had been prepared. With his eyes downcast, his son cast from the adjacent bank toward all of us, snagging my shirt with the three-prong overkill of a lure—something to catch a marlin or perhaps a whale.
Safety, inexperience, and unpreparedness all congealed into a “Let’s get outta here,” and so my husband, daughter, and I left back to camp. Although at first frustrated, my daughter understood, and we promised a fishing trip at the nearby pond owned by our family members.
Days like that tend to stack—one thing into the next—until suddenly I’m at the end of it, full.
For work, the weight of people’s stories can hang heavy like a cloud over my head, so at the day’s end my extra-wide couch cushions accept me with love as I plop kernel after kernel of Boom Chicka Pop’s kettle corn into my mouth. I went so crazy with it the other night, mini fragments that stuck to my clothes wound up in bed with me. Oh, to know what I like and give myself “there, there” pats.
Lastly, and most importantly I have a big pool of understanding. I give it to others, and myself. I don’t hoard it. I spill its sweet words all over myself, like a syrupy blanket. “You did the best you could,” “You’ve been through worse,” “I’m really proud of you” meet me at the day’s end, as my scattered self are drips in a puddle. I soak her up and squeeze her out. “I got you,” I say, knowing the temporary cost of showing up will be worth it. A lesson learned, living fully and completely. No regrets because I accept the cost.
Love, Jaclynn