Smile Moon

Resurrecting from living-death-via-burnout

Photo by Javier Allegue Barros on Unsplash

In the early evening, we see the stars begin to appear as the sun disappears over the horizon. The light of day gives way to the darkness of night. A stillness, a healing quiet comes over the landscape. It's a moment when some other world makes itself known, a numinous presence beyond human understanding.
~ from THE GREAT COMMUNITY OF EARTH by Thomas Berry

I am overwhelmed, and it is my own fault.

When I was a young mother, I was overwhelmed, too, but wipe out was part of the job description. Ditto, as my children grew older and I returned to work because our family lived in Southern California, which was and remains stupidly, prohibitively expensive. Two incomes were nonnegotiable exigencies.

Once my children left the nest, the monster waves of commitments and tasks receded. Staying afloat with only two relationships – marital and work – to navigate proved, if not pleasant, manageable. At last I’d found my sea legs. I could even manage occasional treks to the bow of the ship, where I’d climb the railing, sing out “I’m flying” and believe it.

I so believed I was flying, in fact, that arrogant expectation replaced gratitude.

The ancients called this hubris. Icarus flew too close to the sun, his wings melted…and, well, you know or can guess the rest.

Icarus, I only learn from hard experience, too.

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In retirement, time was at first an exquisite Waterford vase awaiting filling. Absolutely, there was space for this tulip of a task. For that volunteer ranunculus. For thus and such peonies and roses and baby’s breath.

Unfortunately, I’m a bona fide obsessive compulsive. I love volunteering at a hospital – why not volunteer, too, to be a docent at a garden, or to teach a poetry workshop monthly? I love substitute teaching – why not take on students to tutor? I love singing – why limit myself to one choir?

Why not?

You can only cram so many flowers into a vase before a stem breaks or the color scheme gets wonky.

I have grown so busy writing, volunteering, working part time, learning new vocal scores, attending rehearsals, singing arpeggios at voice lessons or mastering proper body alignment at Alexander technique classes, protesting DJT, sweeping the dust bunnies out from under my bed, watering the pots that proliferate like real bunnies on my condo’s front doorstep, balconies, and patio, working out with my trainer because my bones are brittle, swimming because my AIC’s too high, running errands, and driving hither and yon that I am neglecting to visit my mother.

In the 1970s, a series of popular commercials for Chiffon margarine reminded us “It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.” Nor is it nice, I have come to see, to fool myself that I don’t need Mother Nature. My inner climate is parched, pissed off. My soul squalls like a newborn with colic when deprived of time within Her lap.

Yes, forests are my cathedrals; yes, I am considering taking one Sunday a month off from my church choir to go for a long hike in the Angeles Forest. But, like a sugaroholic coming to Jesus regarding a sky-high AIC, I need to overhaul my daily diet of commitments. I love the sweet, carb-y taste of every task on my plate, even housekeeping. But I am exhausted, cranky, teetering at the edge of depression and burnout.

I’m a walking cliché. I yearn to stop and smell the roses en route to collecting the mail. I crave the time to pet a tree, perhaps even hug it. Oh, to walk instead of drive to Trader Joes, so I can admire how a geranium climbs a fence or ivy roots with its little feet to a wall. No longer will I wait for Writer’s Block to stare out the window at the sky. I’ll pull over to the curb and park to admire the view over the mountains rather than put pedal to the metal once the traffic light turns green.

“This day will never come again,” The Trappist monk Thomas Merton reminds me.

No doubt it’s because I’ve been hearing from AARP for nearly two decades — I refuse to waste any more days rushing. I refuse. I refuse. I refuse.

One evening, not too long ago, I went out to fetch a package from the patio. It’s spring and we’ve had a lot of rain, so the Japanese maples have come back gloriously. The fountain is repaired, reminding me of how very much I missed the sound of running water. The backlit buildings shimmered. A red neon sign in the distance read “Self.”

Photo by author

And in the black swath of sky through the trees and buildings the crescent moon beamed. My favorite moon, a Cheshire moon, resembling the Cat’s in Wonderland.

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
'I don't much care where -' said Alice.
'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
'- so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.
'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long enough.”

Long enough. Slow enough. Enough. Slow.

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Jenine Baines also writes her own Substack, A Septuagenarian Sings. Feel free to check it out.