On a shelf

I was experiencing a lot of stress late last week.  The kind of stress that churned up my stomach all day long and loaded a spring deep inside of me in preparation for some kind of an emergency that never came.  It was  a stress that  prevented me from processing thoughts properly.  It had been coming on for weeks and it hit fever pitch on Thursday.  On the suggestion of my husband, I went to talk to someone on Friday for guidance and reassurance on dealing with it.   The woman I met was lovely. She helped me re-arrange my perspective and pick up and re-organize the tracks I had so rigidly laid out.  I started to see clearly for the first time in weeks what my role was and what it was not in relation to the matter that was stressing me out.  She helped me gather up all the wisps of doubt and uncertainty and hold firmly onto what I know and be okay not knowing a LOT of things.  My breathing started to get back in order again.

Right after that appointment, the relief coarsing off of me in waves, I went to the library.  And I sat down and read a magazine.  The library felt like an orderly retreat after weeks of feeling unable to inhabit any space normally.  At last,  my feelings were catalogued and shelved--ready to be taken off the shelf when required but not tripping me up between the aisles any longer.