Slithering snakes and pesky bugs were the red flags thrown our way when we moved to the South.
This morning, coffee in hand, I propped my hands behind my head, elbows pointed toward the sky like satellites. The breeze, the color of the sky, the sculpted landscape—every sensation paired with a well-rested body and the promise of the day—snapped puzzle pieces together into a picture worth framing.
Then came a tickle.
A tickle over too much of my exposed body.
My right hand sprang to my exposed armpit. Swift and instinctive, the fan-like whip of my hand had one goal: ensure whatever was there was gone.
And it was.
Snapping my head in its direction, I wasn’t entirely convinced the creepy crawler and I had enough distance between us yet. The long-legged friend, who I later learned is a flightless fellow called an Eastern Shieldback Katydid, sat nearby. No wonder his landing had felt so substantial. The thing has the heft of a tiny tank. As I shooed him away, he did little except take two steps forward, unlike the similarly shaped grasshoppers that launch themselves into another zip code.
One week from today, two of my best buds will arrive.
They’re my road-trip-loving, psychology-loving pals, and it feels deeply meaningful to have them making the trek. I envision pool time, deep conversations, board games, and good food. And room for the unexpected—the spontaneous adventures and side trips that somehow become the best parts of a visit.
Even with how lighthearted and relaxed I generally feel about my life, I’m noticing pockets of uncharacteristic seriousness and closed-offness in myself.
Inside those places are unrealistic and unwanted expectations.
I’m charting a new path. One of play, fun, and ease.
Recently, a friend reminded me of Brené Brown’s advice about who gets a say in our lives. In my wrestling with critics, I’m seeing how much energy I’ve wasted. Time spent chasing approval or rehearsing feedback is like paying for a service you never use. It’s a waste.
Just yesterday I caught myself mentally revisiting a critic’s perspective.
Then I stopped.
Stop it. Just stop it.
Oh, how I love that comedy sketch where Bob Newhart plays a therapist for a woman afraid of being buried alive in a box.
I digress.
I’m on duty to head inside and bring out chips and salsa for poolside hangout time with Dave and Evelyn.
Pardon me, and I’ll meet you back here tomorrow.
Love,
Jaclynn