Moving Day

So this is really it. Summer has officially flown by faster than I ever could've imagined, and our lease at the rental house is up tomorrow.

I'm also finding myself significantly more depressed and anxious than I'd imagined I would be; feeling positively pulled down by waves of melancholia and stuck with a gnawing sense of regret sunk deep in my belly.

I accomplished, at most, about 15-20% of the activities I'd planned for the summer. 9/11 is rapidly and inexorably approaching, and with it the equally inexorable sense of another year of my life wasted. Yes, of course, I know, intellectually, that that is not the case; I've had another year to nurture and spend time with my family, I've managed to make a dent (albeit tiny) in the clutter and general entropy of my home, I've dealt with loss and illness as well as can be expected... it all looks, at the very least, passable. But reason has nothing to do with what I'm feeling. I'm feeling the curled-back edges, as it were, of my own mortality, and, frankly, it terrifies me.

My life, my consciousness, my everything was irrevocably transmuted and reconfigured eight years minus two days ago, and I am still discovering the true depth and scale of this ongoing transfiguration of self.

I do not use the word "transfigure" lightly. Because, while I may be (as they say in pictures) a somewhat- or at least sometimes- sadder and wiser person today, I am also someone who desires (if not succeeds) to put that sadness and wisdom to good use. And henceforth stems my melancholy. Wisdom does not assure power, nor does sadness assure action. In essence, I feel powerless because I am powerless. And this, in turn, leads to greater feelings of disempowerment, and on and on ad nauseum. (Literally! I literally feel nauseated at times by my anxiety.) All too often, I let the perfect be the enemy of the good, which of course leads to neither perfection, nor even goodness, but merely to lugubrious procrastination and self-loathing. I feel paralyzed during times of flux because I'm not doing more, which I then deal with by, well...not doing anything.

In any case, it's a beautiful day outside, and I think I shall take The Child down to the water for a last splash and a last attempt at catching my fish. I'm sure I could do more, but at least I'm doing something?

Right?