Resting In the Broken Me

When the morning dawns, I often wake with every intention to write—and to start dieting. However, in recent days, by the time the coffee high has waned, limited energy and brain activity has left me short on words and in need of sugar.

It’s my own fault. No matter how long I’ve lived with my limits and the consequences of pushing beyond them, somewhere inside I’m not convinced.

I always think, “This time will be different.” Or, “I’m doing better. It’s just a few days of hard stuff. I can get through and then crash.”

Ha! 

My body decides when to crash, not my mind. But my mind still battles for control. 

So, when I had the opportunity to go to the July 4th Braves game and hear my dad’s Barbershop Quartet sing The National Anthem, the same week that I had several three-hour rehearsals scheduled with my voice students, who will perform the music from Wicked only days from now, after I return from a family reunion in Pittsburgh—well, gulp—desire overrode rationale.

And my body feels it.

The game was super cool. We got to stand at field level, near famous people, while Dad and friends prepared to sing. 

We watched a group of men dressed in colonial garb take the field. 

We took videos and beamed when the quartet appeared on the screen. 

And I wouldn't change a moment of it.

However, my body took a beating. My legs turned to jello and wobbled. My knees gave out. I wrapped an arm tight around my nephew, and later my son, for stability. A wheelchair might have been a better option, but we made it from the ground floor to the nose bleed section where I sat for the duration of the game.

Exhausted, and struggling to walk, I slept at my younger son’s apartment near the stadium after the Astros butchered the Braves. Once home the next day, I collapsed in bed for my first nap. Now, another day later, I’ve played the piano for so many hours, I felt like I had the flu till I swallowed Advil. An eye patch lessened the visual strain, but reminded me of expanding limits.

So, I’ve waffled between feelings of triumph and exhaustion-born despair. And I hate that state of mind because it sends me down a rabbit trail, questioning everything:

My inability to make and keep healthy boundaries. My need to accompany almost every song from the musical, as if playing it is no big deal. The accompanying self-deprecation after impossible key changes keep me from a flawless performance.

Seriously.

What. Was. I. Thinking?

I wasn't. I'm just a sucker for these smiling faces:

Sometimes a convergence of schedules and events create the perfect storm. Since I’m in the middle of one, it’s my job to find the center and remain in the place of calm—a place I won’t begin to find without being kind to myself.

After speaking with kindness to my soul, I’ll be able to move from the place where turbulence blows by lowering expectations.

I probably won’t get every note right. There are just too many. So, relax Ms. Perfectionist. You’re in this for technique, and fun.

Once I’m kind to myself and rest in the center by reshaping expectations, I'll be able to wait out the storm. The rushing winds may throw my gait, starting early tomorrow morning when I wake to get to the airport. 

But I'm actually quite confident that self-kindness, proper expectations, and a big dose of His power that works mightily in me (!), I'll get me from here to Pittsburgh and back again.

I might not get another blog post done until later next week. But I'm going to be kind to myself about that too. 

I want to keep up. To do it all without naps and faulty legs and numerous pills.

But that's not a choice right now. Maybe some day healing will find me. I'd like that. But today I'll rest in the broken me that simply can't give up.

I hope you will too.

 Some photos courtesy pixabay.com