Time zones

I used to work on the 32nd floor of a building on Market Street downtown and there were days when just the bridge would be fogged in, but the rest of the city would be clear. I always thought that if I was stuck in traffic on the bridge, I would think that everywhere was foggy by default, which is exactly how "so what" days feel. When I'm in one, I feel like I will be in it forever. I don't know it will go away if I just keep moving forward.

But I did something else to get this fog to lift before I got to work. I began to think of things I might care about and I realized I care about recycling.

Yes, recycling. I care that the aluminum can gets into the blue bin and not the black one. I care that it goes off into the great land of recycling and becomes something else. It doesn't sit in a landfill in another state, doomed to lie next to my next door neighbor's aerosol can.

So although I haven't figured out the whole purpose of my life in the last couple days, nor have I found what I'm looking for, I don't feel ready to sign up for anti-depressants, which is really convenient, because I don't believe in meds to solve problems in the brain.

The simplest words today proved to be the most profound. My yoga instructor reminded the class (me) today to be in the triangle pose I'm in now, even if we're in transition to half moon. I know, I've heard the same thing said by many different yoga instructors, but it's always appropriate. This, of course, sums up my life problem over the last week, at least.

I tell myself to be where I am - to have my mind and body be in the same time zone, at least, but they seldom are. My brain is at least 3 hours ahead of my body, that is, when it's not 2 hours behind. My brain keeps itself busy thinking about the work I should have done before I left, or the work I should be doing. Work seems so important in my workaholic trained brain that I put it before everything. Of course I can come in, of course I volunteer to help on my days off, of course I check my email and answer questions even though I'm only paid to work three days a week.

The only issue here is that it's not just about me anymore. The time I work at home when I'm not paid to work is time that I'm not spending with Ava. It's time that I'm not rolling a ball back and forth with her; it's time that I'm not tickling her or holding her upside down to get her to laugh. It's time I'm not in monosyllable conversation with her.

T reminded me this morning that I have worked every day this week, except Monday, right as I was about to open up my laptop and work as soon as he left for an early appointment. "This is supposed to be Ava's day," he said.

During the time it took him to go to Home Depot, I sent an email from my Treo saying that I couldn't do a task for work today. Five minutes later, I felt lighter, like there was hope in the murky world of my workaholicism and when Ava and I rolled a softball back and forth, both cheering when she rolled it back to me, my brain and body were enjoying the sun in Pacific Standard Time.