Not letting the matrix consume me

The snowflakes are fat and fluffy this morning. I’m on my fourth cup of coffee, and the words I need to find are elusive. I am off kilter. A moody, dream-like fuzz surrounds the edges of my workload. And I allow it.

I put on my rust-colored cardigan, one that soothes the rough spots of any day, and wrap it around my shoulders until warmth starts seeping in. I examine my thoughts, finding tender ones that chafe against my brain, and write them down on small squares of paper.

Just like all the cans in my pantry need to be facing outward, spaced equally, I do the same with the squares of paper. My swirly handwriting stares back at me as I begin to sort and reflect, probing what I need to work on to better myself.

Do I need to be kinder? Why am I so distracted? Why ain’t I more driven? How can I temper my passions and stay focused?

Endless thoughts claim me as I seek to tame them into cohesive thought patterns, something clear that I can shape into a successful path to walk on. I never thought myself a brave person or even outspoken.

I would get annoyed when people asked me things like “aren’t you afraid to do that” or “shouldn’t you be more careful.” Sometimes it was the self-deprecating phrases like “I could never do that” or “I could never go there because it’s so different” that really got me going.

It was then I realized I must be doing something right to cause so many people to pause and caution me. I think being brave is stepping out of the norm to do something out of the norm, like flying to another country by yourself to write a book or writing about hard topics for public consumption.

Sometimes I’d rather fly under the radar than be thought of as “a woman with opinions,” but I’d settle for someone calling me “a person who has opinions” because no one ever says the words “a man with opinions.” He would just be called a man.

I never acted on my opinions as a young wife and mother. I felt them but kept mostly quiet, jotting words and thoughts inside stacks of journals and notepads. I lost folders of poetry I had written in my youth, lost in moves and three consecutive houses as our family grew to five. And as the kids grew older, not needing me as much, I knew my passions would need to come out, the words bursting at the seams.

I have found myself at a boiling point, my own hard-won views in sharp contrast to others, the force of current events and words swirling in a poisonous stew inside my soul. I have let it affect me, not in the words I say, but in the consumption and constancy, the immediacy of it, the social media at my fingertips ever ready for devouring, during breakfast and late at night, during conversations that shouldn’t be interrupted.

Am I kind enough? Am I focused on my craft, bettering myself with work I’m proud of? I am. This I know. What I need to be better at is switching off my focus to be more present in what’s tangible, right in front of me. It’s a delicate balance of not giving in to what I was at an earlier time in life: too available or putting myself last.

I need to work at keeping the me I am now but acknowledging I need to step out of the eddying waters that can creep up to my neck if I’m not careful. It would be easy to drown in them, not seeing how far from shore I’ve floated. Reminders of what’s real have been noted, and I work hard to remedy that while still persisting.