Tonight, I am exhausted. The down-in-your-bones, swirling-around-your-head kind of exhausted. I feel like I’ve lived many lives in a single day.
Tonight, I went to visit a very close friend. She’s been in the hospital since before Christmas. She’s fighting for her life in all of the ways. (And she’d probably be really annoyed that I used that language to describe her situation. But in a very real way, it’s true.) She is a remarkable. And the hospital can be a very lonely, very unremarkable place. As much as I hate the hospital and driving to the Westside in rush hour traffic and the fact that UCLA Medical Center makes you pay $12 for parking, visiting her was the best part of my day.
For two hours, she let me bitch and moan and tell stories and ruminate and laugh (at the expense of other people). She’s in the hospital, and yet she is selfless enough with her time and energy—still—that she lets me talk about my very non-life-or-death problems. That is grace. That is compassion. That is some good motherf***ing friendship.
This has been a tough week, for no particular reason other than there was just never enough time for me to accomplish all the things I wanted to. Or money. Or patience. Or energy. And this, I’m coming to find out, is just the simple truth about adult life. I have a running joke with a few friends that adulthood is just being broke and tired until you die. That’s a morbid way of looking at things, maybe. And I only partially believe it. But today, both were completely true.
It’s the ninth day of the year 2015, and I haven’t really gotten to do any of the normal new year rituals I enjoy doing. There was no reflective writing about the gifts and lessons and heartbreaks that 2014 brought me. There was no writing and clarifying of my intentions for this brand new year. No dreaming, no planning. Instead, I’ve been in a constant mode of doing. This is the first time I’ve sat down to write something real at all so far.
It’s taken me nine whole days. Nine days!
I met with my therapist/life coach/spiritual living guru/mentor yesterday. She asked me about my intentions for the year, about my intentions for the work we do together. And I was honest with her, I told her hadn’t had time to make any. That was the first time that I had realized I’ve been in a constant state of doing—moving, working, action action action. It was an “A-ha!” moment.
Constant doing is exhausting.
My whole life, I have been a planner. I take a very passive approach to life. I enjoy being occupied, being engaged. But man, I fucking hate being busy. And it’s not like I’ve never been busy before… or that I don’t often have multiple projects and commitments I’m working on. I do. Consistently. But busy-ness? Nah, I can’t fux with it. This doing for doing’s sake, without the space or time to reflect or catch your breath, just seems so excessive. I mean, how am I to appreciate the things that I do or the moments in which they happen?
I don’t know. It’s hard to articulate. But I’ve just never been a doer. A thinker and dreamer and planner, yes. But not a doer.
Maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe that’s the gift this year is trying to offer me. Instead of the planning and mental masturbation, maybe the Universe has intended for me to just get shit done this year. Fuck my feelings about the doing. Fuck my thought process around the doing. Maybe I’m just supposed to do, to learn a new way of being me.
But I’m still exhausted. And even though I have a shot list to compose and pieces to edit and queue… It’s a very real possibility that not everything that needs to be done tonight will get done. Because I do need rest.
Resting is still a type of doing, right?