‘30 somethings in 30 days’
Day 28 and 29 -
Ah, holidays (if you can call a long weekend that), so relaxing and so leading me away from my centre. I thought I would romp these last few days in with vigour and fervour. I feel that the wheels have somewhat fallen off.
Before I go on, I would just like to mention… one thing I have noticed from these entries is that I often begin with how disappointed I am in how my day went. Phooey to that, I say. I re-read the post previous to this one and I feel I have been doing myself a disservice. I had a great day of writing and playing, in spite of any distractions, including the big one, whether I felt like it or not. I should be proud of myself, not dissing my natural urges to lie on a couch. I played anyway, I wrote anyway and I wrote about it, even though I thought I did averagely. I’m going to be nicer to myself from now on. I’ve been miserly with my feelings.
Enough.
Okay, now where was I? Ah, yes that’s right, I was admiring my strengths and accepting my other traits as they are.
Sunday, our last day on the beach, I woke up crying from a horrific dream. It took me some time to shake it. I wrote for over an hour in my morning pages, then continued into my poetry/lyric book. I won’t share and lay bare my subconscious with you for Jungian analysis, but the upside of my bad dream, was that in the dream I spoke my mind in spite of what I felt was the worst thing that could possibly happen to me. Even though it was terrifying at the time, I suspect it was actually a really good dream that was just difficult to have. I wrote a lot about it.
Because it was our last day, there was the final swim to be had (would you believe, the sun came out!) and a clean up of the house that we had been lucky enough to stay in. Then there was the drive home. I was on the brink of sleep for the entire journey, as the car guided us back into the sauna that was Melbourne last night (I was not driving!). When we arrived home, we unpacked in a daze, showered and went to bed with the fan on low.
I did not play guitar.
Today, I did not want to get out of bed. I think I have just wound down and would be ready for a proper length holiday, but it is not to be just yet. I rose and took myself off for an appointment with my dermatologist, as all good Australians do, to check for long-term sun damage and any suspicious blemishes (I have had a couple of melanomas, so I go often). Nothing worse than seeing your skin doctor right after a trip to the coast! Even though I glowed an eerie iridescent white at the beach, due to a severe dowsing of sun screen, I still had a few rosy patches that somehow missed my vigilant slathering. She didn’t bat an eye. She’s good like that.
Back to a neighbourhood cafe for some blunch with Joan Didion for company, then it was home to do some practical work, like emailing, phone calls and general Monday-style behaviour.
I didn’t stop.
I picked up the guitar about an hour ago (it is now 9.30pm) and ran my songs. By then, I REALLY didn’t feel like it. I played anyway. Perversely, it sounded good and I really enjoyed it. I can hear the progress I’ve made, my tone is better and my hands are keeping a steady rhythm.
I did not write.
That’s okay.
Ang x
