Me (frantically): I just feel like I can’t get it done. Like, I physically *can’t*!
My mom is standing in the door about to pick up another box of my things to wait in her basement while I find a home in the forest. Without much of a pause at all and certainly no impatience about it she says:
“You can, and you will.” an assurance that comes from knowing the panic is rediculous, whatever it’s telling me is complete bullshit and i’m full of it to take any time to consider it’s perspective.
And there is the liminal moment. The threshold between the panicked voice that believes it can’t be done, and certainly *I’m* not capable of getting through all this packing, all the details, all the stuff I don’t have a plan for yet. And the seeping out from there to everything else I can’t manage. Between that helpless place and the self that turns toward the task with joyous determination. I pause at the choice for a slight moment before i take a deep breathe of possible and able and it’s that simple.
I don’t know why this detour is so alluring to me each time. How helpless seems so instantly gratifying and glamours me with some promise of relief from strain when each time the step back into empowered and capable is so much sexier.
You can. And you will.