Yesterday, on one of the colder afternoons in January, I walked the dog and stared up at a purple sky swollen with clouds and sliced by city buildings and tree branches. Traffic filled my ears and the leash pulled at my fingers, stiff from the frigid shadows. The sun left too early and so I tried to call it back. A distant rain lingered on the horizon instead.
Everything is more expansive outside, including me. I first felt it in the green hills above San Diego a few weeks ago, sitting on a porch while monsoon winds stirred the air and rain soaked through the floorboards. It was a long and quiet weekend, the air heavy and wet, our cabin smelling of burning logs and wine bottles. Worry softened, momentarily, drowned out by new frantic thoughts.
It’s magnetic, this force that wishes to anchor me in constant worry and stress when all I want to for is to find and protect my peace. My sensitivity often feels tested: Jow much anxiety can I resist? How long until I buckle and break? If I find …
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Feelings Not Aside to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.