Critical Condition

I find that life happens in cycles. And the cycles I've experienced this year have been all about work.

In between drowning in it, I come up for air for just long enough to gulp in some oxygen, clear my head and get back to the office. Christmas came and went and before I knew it, I was picked up and dropped, dead centre, into the eye of the storm. The proverbial shit storm, that is. Even Easter did not settle the elements.

I have been spinning around and around in this cyclone of everything work related until last week, when my body decided, it is just not going to take it anymore. It didn’t trust me to choose to take a break, so it made an executive decision and took me on an enforced one; the one that I needed and refused to give to myself. Low and behold, I got sick.

I spent the first day feigning surprise that this could happen to me. I turned up at the office only to be marched back out by the germ police. How could I be sick? I take vitamins. I read Body & Soul every Sunday, religiously. Surely, knowing how to look after yourself means that is exactly what you are doing. As it turns out, acting on this information is not only useful but crucial to actually sustaining a state of wellbeing.

For every question I had, my body replied with a resounding; “No”.
No, we are not going anywhere.
No, we are not doing anything.
No, we are resting now.
Please shut up and go to sleep.

And so I did, once I stopped tossing and turning. The questions subsided. I cancelled meetings and conference calls. I cancelled dinners and outings. Horror of horrors, I turned off both of my mobile phones. I underwent a complete maintenance shutdown.

The simple things that one usually takes for granted and does in a flurry became strangely significant. Getting out of bed was miraculous. Brushing my teeth felt great. On Saturday, I showered and dressed with a great sense of achievement. It was like I had been walking at pace, just ahead of myself, and I had reached forward and pulled myself back into the present with an enormous and violent hug. “Hey you, get back here”. I saw myself in the mirror for the first time in weeks.

Work schmirk, I jeer and proceed to make myself a posie of promises. I will eat better, exercise regularly, sleep properly, drink less, decline unnecessary social events and put myself first. Full stop, no excuses. There is no one else who can swallow this jagged little pill for me (thank you, Alanis).

My slumber has restored me. Not only did I get sick, but I got some perspective. For how long I keep it still remains to be seen, but I have a pile of good intentions. I think I will take them out for a walk now while they still have legs. You know, so they can smell the roses.

Trojan horse

The year is almost at a close and it hardly seems the time to start something new. But that is what I've done. Timing is everything or so they say, yet time itself is more a mock structure for our lives that sets our expectations of what should be happening right now, and what comes next.

It's a new job. That's what I've started. The gates opened unexpectedly, and at first I was cynical. Not a trait I'm proud of but it's part and parcel of my long-suffering survival instinct. I rode in slowly on my Trojan horse. As the wheels creaked to a halt, I sat inside, huddled, listening for explosions, gun fire, yelling. I wait for it, confused and suspicious. I have long prepared myself for this moment. I am armed and I am dangerous. But where I find myself now, this is not the same war zone... I am met by a resounding silence.

Over a decade of siege, I have constructed this wooden horse. It has been my protection. My get-out-of-jail-free, hide-when-you're-scared, armoured shell. The tough 'n' stuff I carry on my back, so that nothing sticks and there is no cut too deep to heal from. Though made from hard, resilient timber, the horse is always hungry. He feeds on fear and indignation.

And in many ways, he has been feeding on me.

Now, I pop the peephole and look out to survey my new surroundings. The sun is shining. The air seems clear. I emerge, surprised to find I am no longer at war. People are amused and pleased to see me as I dust myself off and shut the horse's gut behind me.

I am not their foe, nor have I tricked them to let me inside their secure space. I am invited. I am welcome. Low and behold, the horse that got me into Troy time and time again, was not at all the stratagem to end the conflict. All it took was me.

Needless to say, I do not intend to ride out on the horse I rode in on. But I will stable it, for now. I don't quite have the energy to push it to the outer yet.

From where I sit at my new desk, I can see the back of a sign, advertising the company to those that pass by. A bird is nesting there, inside the letter 'r', and occasionally I look up to see him bringing small twigs and leaves to build his urban hideaway. He tweets and flutters, scampering in and out from behind the metal scaffold. Every so often, he appears to look me in the eye. Head tilted to the side, he regards me with feint interest.

Mr Bird has things in perspective. He reminds me that everything we do feeds back to our home, our family, and is part of something much, much bigger.