My balls dropped this week.
I kid you not.
The juggling act that I’d been congratulating myself on perfecting, suddenly turned into a bad sidewalk show. You know this act of which I speak: its called life.
I’d been feeling increasingly anxious for a couple of weeks. Vague unknowns were starting to make me restless. I didn’t want to ‘trust the journey’ or ’embrace the uncertainty’. I found myself seeking absolutes. I wanted to know outcomes.
My mind wrestled with itself for more hours than was productive and, even whilst I recognised the futility of trying to control everything in my life, I still insisted on making every attempt.
The universe sent me a few gentle reminders to go with the flow. I deleted those messages, never listened to those voicemails. I defiantly looked the other way.
And then I got sick and dropped all my balls.
Well, I actually threw a few down and the rest I just surrendered.
The strange sensations and shooting pains that my body had been experiencing for a few days were messengers of the chaos that was yet to come. The chaos that would serve as an unquestionable reminder that nothing is under control.
My anxiousness to determine outcomes was swept laughingly aside by the flu that traveled around my body. My energy seeped lower than I can remember it being in years. I had a ball of barbed wire in my throat and a sea of tissues around my bed.
My taste buds decided they were due a vacation and were last seen heading over to sunnier shores. They haven’t yet returned. My sense of smell evaporated, perhaps out of kindness so that I wouldn’t have to be offended by my own decay.
But somewhere in between Netflix and popsicles I found a pocket of clarity.
I had time to zone out and then zoom back in. I had time to consider what was next. I’d been feeling slightly frustrated with a couple of creative endeavors and my new found friend, The Flu, had pointed out that maybe those particular balls were supposed to be dropped.
We’re all just juggling.
We panic about dropping everything, about making a mess, about fucking up our flow. But when we do drop a ball (or two or ten) it doesn’t mean it’s game over. It’s actually an opportunity to reassess.
Do I really want to pick that one back up?
Do I want to add something new to the mix?
Is this serving my best interests anymore?
My five bed ridden days have been quite the experience. A lesson in letting go. I’m reminded of a phrase that I always use when it comes to keeping material possessions:
Is it useful, beautiful or joyful?
If I can’t say yes to at least one of the above then I take the item out of my possession and recycle or donate it so that it can go where it’s needed.
And truthfully, the same phrase is applicable to other areas of our lives. If we can’t find beauty, joy or usefulness from what we surround ourselves with then why are we hanging on?
Drop a ball, sister. Liberate yourself.