I wonder why I'm so afraid to be still.
I wonder if I believe that moss will grow along the arch of my heel or that I'll become a target.
When I force myself to be still, sometimes I feel like I am drowning in the quiet.
Even in the morning when I'm just out of bed, sitting at the kitchen table and drinking my coffee, I cannot be still. I tug at my hair, rub my shoulders. My right foot strokes the dog's ear. I check Bloglines, then MSNBC, then NOAA. Then, back to Bloglines. My email twice in the next three minutes. Back to Bloglines.
My mind is an oversized wallet spewing receipts and lists. In the middle of a project, I am convinced I need office supplies. I suddenly have to make guacamole. I must know the defnition of "topar" immediately.
I ramble when you ask me a question. If there is silence in a conversation, even good comfortable silence, I fight the urge to decorate that space.
Busy-ness that prevents intimacy. Busy-ness that masks fear that in those quiet, still moments,
Tricking myself to believe that somehow, if I'm a blur, I'm efficient. And successful. And accomplished.
But I know that being busy washing Spiderman sunglasses and untangling necklaces and searching for my purple Flair Tip pen is not the kind of busy-ness that yields a sense of accomplishment.
I am wasting time so that I don't have to be alone with myself, and I haven't figured out why that is, yet.
I'm taking a Pilates class tomorrow. I have no experience with this, but something suggests that it may be like Yoga? Either I will have a panic attack on my mat or I will progress in learning to be still and quiet and mindful.