A cockroach in my grits
There are weeks in my life that I would rather forget. This week has been one of those in part. In "part", because there have also been some spectacular wonderful moments as well. But overall, it has been a cockroach in my grits.
I use that particular metaphor because of the spectacular cockroach (if spectacularness is measure in size alone) I saw the morning the whole mess of the week began.
So I have practiced over and over and over again, changing the narrative, changing the story I am telling myself about what is happening and why and what choices I have about what is happening to me (because in the end that is the only choice we have most times, and it certainly is the only thing we can control - our response), and then I even moved it up a level to changing the lens - not just the story I was telling myself, but moving (metaphorically) into a different seat, a different point of view, a position that varies from the one I think I am stuck in - and still the injuries mounted.
It has spiraled to the point that I am a little wary of even flying these flights today, even though honestly I am not superstitious, . . . really . . . seriously, I am not.
Perhaps all that is left to do is throw the whole lot out and start a fresh batch of grits? If the plane doesn't go down in flames, I think I will. Let's start by counting all the things I can be grateful for . . . and so it begins.
There are weeks in my life that I would rather forget. This week has been one of those in part. In "part", because there have also been some spectacular wonderful moments as well. But overall, it has been a cockroach in my grits.
I use that particular metaphor because of the spectacular cockroach (if spectacularness is measure in size alone) I saw the morning the whole mess of the week began.
So I have practiced over and over and over again, changing the narrative, changing the story I am telling myself about what is happening and why and what choices I have about what is happening to me (because in the end that is the only choice we have most times, and it certainly is the only thing we can control - our response), and then I even moved it up a level to changing the lens - not just the story I was telling myself, but moving (metaphorically) into a different seat, a different point of view, a position that varies from the one I think I am stuck in - and still the injuries mounted.
It has spiraled to the point that I am a little wary of even flying these flights today, even though honestly I am not superstitious, . . . really . . . seriously, I am not.
Perhaps all that is left to do is throw the whole lot out and start a fresh batch of grits? If the plane doesn't go down in flames, I think I will. Let's start by counting all the things I can be grateful for . . . and so it begins.
