stuffing the closet

I've been feeling scatterbrained the last few weeks.

It seems that the closet where I throw my thoughts, tasks, light-bulb moments, really nice ideas that I just haven't gotten around to doing, dreams and schemes, and other miscellaneous clutter is dangerously full. Every time I need to toss in another item, I can only figuratively inch the door open and hope the whole mess doesn't come tumbling down on me.

I think I generally like being jumbled and discordant. I like doing what I feel is impulsive and whimsical. I have spent the last few weeks laughing a lot, playing even more, and enjoying every last lick of it.

And I feel like I'm managing just fine. I got my taxes done, am actively studying for a test at the end of March, have made progress in work deliverables and vision, and even enjoyed some lovely, quality time with my closest friends. I sleep soundly at night and wake feeling relaxed and refreshed. I have a good quantity of energy and zest. And the spring feel in the air is making me excited.

Yet, I feel like I'm waiting for the walls to come crashing down. Like, at any moment, something is going to give, and I have no idea what it will be. Like that closet is lurking, eerily, in the back bedroom of my subconscious - a dark, musty closet that you know will reveal something nasty.

And being the procrastinator that I am, I think I'd much rather have a house fire blaze through that particular room, then have to roll up my sleeves and dig in; sort through the debris and make some sense of it all. I know I'm not quiet inside, and so I'm likely projecting that into my world. I don't feel discontent, but I also don't feel peaceful - and so the world around me becomes hyper and crazy.

And just as I am typing this, I meet a new colleague at work who tells me that he has leukemia. He's a young, fit, attractive guy. He's married and has a toddler at home. He smiles gently when he tells me that he's just getting back to the gym since he had 12 months of chemo. He describes that he will live with cancer in his blood for the rest of his life; monitoring his white blood cell count every three months. That if his levels deteriorate, he'll get back on the "soup"; the toxic cocktail that gives him a chance to live longer with his family. He talks about how this kind of thing puts life into perspective and makes it easier to laugh and to love. And then he walks away; munching on a donut.

And with that life lesson, I can feel my body relax. I can feel that noise in my head quiet. I can feel the tears brimming in my eyes. And I thank him silently for the gift he has just given me.