Open Doors, Open Hands

I woke up early with a migraine and spent the day mostly bed-rotting. Curtains drawn tight, a single candle burning, no music. Just dark, quiet peace.

My covers are loosely tossed over my lap. Bare legs stretched out among the sheets. It's the heavy sort of comfort, where you feel like you are sinking into the mattress.  Every exhale takes you deeper into the moment.  

I'm drinking more coffee today than usual. The caffeine seems to help release the tension in my head and even though is a hot summer day, I don't mind the heat slipping across my lips. It warms me from the inside out.

Life feels like I have not just started a new chapter, but maybe like I’ve picked up an entirely new book. It’s unusual for me to not have a grand plan in the back of my mind, but it seems all the big ideas have kind of fallen off lately, and I feel more willing to see what finds me. I have spent my life chasing and creating, and now, I guess I’m curious—if I sit still for a moment, will anything reach out for me? There is an unmistakable feeling of anticipation in the pause. 

There’s a quote: "Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans."

It’s pretty accurate to how I was living. In my twenties, I thought I would live that stereotypical family life. Things were not as I envisioned. I kept trying to make it work, keep my head down, stick to expectations, and keep my promises, even if it hurt, even if it killed me…

Then there comes a moment where you can’t anymore. The ache in your chest wakes up, the heat of all the years rises to the surface. You'd rather burn it all down than live like that for a single day longer. 

So then there was a new plan, and well… that didn’t go the way I thought it would either.

Every time, each new direction felt like a cool drink of water on a hot sticky day.

The point is, I made plans, had goals, mapped things out… again and again, needing to pivot or regroup. No matter how much you think you have it figured out, it inevitably turns out differently than expected. Some things and people turn out to be more significant than you ever could have imagined; other times, you're hitting dead ends. 

I guess I wonder if this is part of middle age, where you realize how much control you actually don’t have over anything. What we wanted doesn’t matter as much as we think it does. Sometimes hanging on to our plan is like gripping broken glass.

I want to open my hands.

To feel the brush of a crisp breeze, run my fingers through tangled hair, catch raindrops in my palms. I want to hold the weight of a book, wipe away a tear, or trace patterns with my fingertips in sand, or trailing across skin. 

I’ve lived long enough to evaluate where I am versus where I thought I was going. With that hindsight, it almost feels silly to think I am in control of what comes next. The reality is, we only play a small part. Sometimes we even surprise ourselves by changing what we want, how we feel, or our perspective on things.

I never would have thought that I would feel this way about life—willing to just "give up the reins" and see what comes to me. But here I am, feeling like this surrender is a bit of its own exciting adventure. I realize how much I crave a different kind of intensity. The kind where breathlessness comes from absolute trust, not fear. The rush from the unknown, the touch of the unexpected.

Surrender sounds dangerous. To let myself relax, drop my shoulders, tilt my head back, close my eyes and let whatever happens…happen.  Let the moments wash over me in waves without chasing anything. Experience what it is seeking me, for once.

I'm exhausted,  and I want to feel the stillness, breathe deeply and savor the sweetness of life. I want to step back, catch my breath, take in the view. I want to cultivate a deep sense of bliss. The kind that can only be found when you open yourself up.

 I want to experience things that are beyond my imagination, and I can’t have that if I’m trying to decide what comes next. I need to just open the door and see who or what walks in.