TIVOLI JENSEN

My hypothesis was right.

When the major stresses of my life are removed (e.g. finals, school, unpleasantness, election day, shortages of coffee), life is exceedingly delightful.  Pinterest is not something to laugh at, but to sincerely contemplate and execute in a Martha-esque fashion.  I have time for the finer things in life like breathing, vacuuming, and sleeping.  Instead of being marred by the hyperventilation-inducing quagmires of life, I am pleasantly surprised by all that’s around me.

Like clouds.

While walking to my car this morning, instead of looking down at the stained cement or out at the rows and rows of my to-do list flowing out of my hands, I looked up, and noticed a bright, blue sky.  And clouds.

In second grade I learned the types of clouds.  I can’t attribute the names in my memory to what they actually are anymore (cumulus?  stratus totalus?  expecto patro-nimbus?), but they’re fascinating despite remaining nameless. I just stood there for a moment, watching storm clouds move swiftly across the sky.  It was blue when I had started my trek to the rest of my day, but as I stood, the sky became more and more covered by the spans of darkened clouds.  The electric blue that had been there a moment earlier (which reminded me of my dear friend’s intense eyes– you’ve a lovely color, Meg), was suddenly overcome by the murky gray.

My brow furrowed.  The realization was forthcoming.

Stress is like storm clouds.  When there’s one cloud of stress, there’s more coming.  And they will cover the beauty and simplicity of an electric, vibrant life with the toxic thoughts of “Am I not doing enough?”  “Can I do this?”  “I’ll never be great, or even good.”

Last week, the sky of my  mind was dark and thundering.  The rain of my thoughts spilled out onto my cheeks, drenching my sweater sleeves and textbooks.  As I looked at all that was before me, the small, booming voice of my insecurity whispered, “You can’t do this.”

I don’t often tolerate the “I can’tses” or “I don’tses” or “I won’tses” of life, but in my stormy state of stress, it was all I could focus on.

“I can’t do this,” I whispered out loud, the tears turning quickly to sobs.  I tried to muffle them, to not let anyone know how much I was struggling, and that I was mere seconds from quitting it all.

My daughter heard, though.  She got out of bed, tiptoed beside me, and kissed my feet.

“It’s okay, Mommy, I promise.”

And of course, I cried more.  I hugged her as the precious, wonderful, empathetic, smarter-than-I-could-ever-fathom little girl kept repeating, “It’s okay, Mommy, I promise.”  I sobbed more.  It was those great, ugly sobs of supreme anguish that are caused by something traumatically beautiful.

But, the storm was clearing.

The rain had let up, the clouds were retreating, the sun was glimpsing through.

And soon, the tears on my face had dried, my daughter had fallen asleep…

And then there I was this morning, staring at the sky and the clouds.  I could still hear her whispering, “It’s okay, Mommy, I promise.”

I know you are stressed.  Isn’t everyone?  I’m here to tell you to breathe, though.  That it can wait, at least a little bit longer, and you should just breathe right now.  Go outside.  Look up.  Look at the clouds, the sky, the stars– but not directly into the sun, lest we have a lawsuit on our hands.

But, please, look up.  Look up and breathe for a while, because it’s okay.  I promise.