This time of year, anxiety is free-floating and contagious. It drifts through the atmosphere like some kind of virulent winter flu, ready to latch onto anyone who stops for a nanosecond.
I know this and build up my resistance with meditation, silent days, yoga and the best of intentions. But then as holiday pressure builds, fueled by commercialism and advertising and calendar pages turning at warp speed, I find myself infected. I fret about whether or not I will have the house decorated before we host a surprise party for a friend on the 18th. I lie awake counting back days and trying to figure out how much time I have to get packages wrapped and shipped to the west coast.
I wake early and head to the studio to write before the world intrudes. My desk is covered with slips of paper and forms. I have recommendations to write for a grad school candidate, two copies of bound galleys to read and write cover blurbs for. Manuscript pages are piled at one side. I worry about whether or not I’ll make my new deadline.
As if I don’t have enough to occupy my thoughts, my mind leapfrogs to December 29th. I worry about how many layers I’ll need to keep warm when we sit in the stands at the Meadowlands, the last regular season game for the Patriots, tickets we’ve had for months. I stew about the weather and arrangements for the trip. Should we drive to New Jersey or fly? If we decide to fly I’ll need to get tickets soon.
I make lists. Pages and pages of lists. As if organization can be the antidote to anxiety.
And then, as I plan and worry and organize, life lobs a curve ball.
A doctor’s appointment for a nagging pain. We learn that Hillary must have an operation. Monday.
All the things that kept me awake, stewing and making lists, no longer seem important.
The birthday party is canceled. The tickets for the Patriots-Giants game are up for resale. Chores that only days before seemed critical go unattended.
I am again reminded of what really counts.
