In our little corner of the world, there are a handful of possible changes on the horizon—decisions to be made, choices to navigate. Normal life stuff, but I’m realizing that my brain has been on high alert for weeks now—what’s right? What’s next? What do I do? What if I get it wrong?
I’m learning that sometimes (more than sometimes?) I overthink as a way of trying to protect myself, like if my poor little brain nearly burns itself out whizzing and whirring, then whatever I’m afraid of can’t come true.
I was standing in the kitchen making a cup of tea for me and a bowl of spicy noodles for my son, and as I stood at the counter waiting for the kettle to boil, I realized that I was squinting my eyes, shoulders pulled up to my ears, like the white kitchen cabinet in front of me was going to suddenly reveal a mystic message or something.
I realized in that moment that I’m trying too hard to know things that aren’t yet knowable. I’m trying to control things outside my control. I just don’t know all the answers right now—I can’t. They’re not there yet, like a Polaroid that hasn’t yet had time to develop. I can keep squinting at the blank space, but that won’t hurry the process along.
And so here I am again, settling into the un-knowing, the not-yet, the questions instead of the answers. And maybe you’re here, too.
Welcome…I hate it here, to be honest. But this is the place we keep coming back to all our lives, all of us humans: facing change, living in uncertainty, wondering, asking questions, aching for answers that haven’t yet appeared.
This is how life is. And this is what I’ve learned to do:
Listen, pray, light your favorite candles, have toast for dinner, go for long aimless walks, snuggle with your people.
Wait and watch the sky and be very very good to yourself and your people in the meantime.
Be on the lookout for beauty.
Buy flowers.
Drink a lot of water.
Try to get really really good sleep, because your brain is working extra hard right now and could definitely use a break.
Read good stories, listen to great music, ask for help as often as you need it.
Drink tea, stare out the window, write pages and pages in a little notebook, so that all your anxiety has a place to live outside of your head.
Sit on the grass or the sand—get down low as often as possible, on your knees in prayer or in a park or on the beach…sacred spaces, all.
Give it time. Then more time, then more time. No great decisions get made out of frantic or fearful places.
The next time you pass a church, go in and light a candle—as you do, you’re joining a wide, lovely community that spans the globe and the centuries, a community of not-knowers, questioners, listeners.
Mystics, mustard-seed believers, pilgrims. Humans.
This is what it is to be human.
It’s hard, but you’re not alone.
And you don’t have to know all the answers right now.