April 29. 2019
My moods have been like swinging monkeys the past few days. Or maybe they're always like this. Like the weather, even in Los Angeles. Today the sky is dark, brooding, but later the sun might come out and hit the last of the lemons on the tree in our little back yard.
Last night I listed the monkey moods + states I'd been swinging in:
calm, peaceful, sobbing on the green chair for five minutes, then walking the dog, inspired, missing people, out of sorts, enjoying the red geraniums, terrible self-doubt, listening to a meditation, grasping for certainty, making a delicious quiche, enjoying a conversation, thinking about a creative project, joy over my younger brother coming to work here for two weeks...
You get it.
My neighbor invited me to cut bouquets from her exploding white rose bushes so I got my kitchen scissors and had at it. While snipping, her three year old daughter ran up to me and said,
I'm a volcano and skipped away.
(You know after the last couple of posts I really just want to be three, five, six again.)
I listened to a podcast where an actor said, "I'm here to share my messes."
The monkeys stopped jumping and chattering for a full minute when I heard that.
I'm a volcano. And so are you. We're a lot of things, all the time, all day long.
I sob, walk the dog, chat with my neighbor, cook a quiche, smell the roses.
I went to a beloved therapist years ago because I was convinced I was going crazy. I had left a bat-shit marriage at the time and thought for sure it had to be my mind that was cracking. My therapist, who lovingly called me Blanche ( I don't know why but found it endearing) said,
Blanche, you're one of the sanest people I know. 🌀
Monkey-naming, mess-sharing - it's how I stay sane, relatively speaking.
So, get out a notebook.
Sit down with a friend.
Name your monkeys.
Share your messes.
Find your inner volcano, then skip skip skip to my Lou.