I’m in a bit of a funk right now, doubting myself at every turn. I’m sure this happens to everyone. Suddenly, everything I try seems difficult or doomed. It’s like the King Midas curse, only everything I touch turns to blech.
I worry that I’ll never be able to write a good sentence again. Never cook a good meal. Never take a photograph I like.
I worry that I have no idea how to be a midwife to a pregnant goat.
I review the list of projects I’ve started or want to start and feel frustrated that I haven’t made much progress.
My to-do list overflows, but checking things off it gives me no satisfaction because I keep adding new items in scratchy pencil to the bottom.
I’ve begun to realize I will never do even half the things I dreamed I’d do. Never read all the good books. I will never feel caught up and current.
I wonder if I’ll ever write a poem someone I don’t know would think worthy of reading twice.
I worry about friendships I thought were solid and no longer seem so. I worry that I’ve lost the knack for being a good friend.
At times in my life, I’ve felt that I had a clear map of where I was headed and what I wanted, but not these days. These days I’m winging it. Feeling more than a bit lost. Wondering where I’m going.
I know I ought to try to enjoy being off the map. Relish the trip over the destination. Go with the flow. Ride it out and see where I land. Cut myself some slack.
But I tend to be a worrier, and I like a plan, and the last person I ever let off the hook is myself.
Feeling this way, I guess the only thing I can plan is the next minute. I’ll sit here, stare at the blank page, and will the words to come.