Hello there, friends. It’s been a moment since I’ve visited this corner of the internet. I’ve missed you. Between several jobs, grad school applications, and the chaos of panic and depressive episodes, I wasn’t able to find the time to write; either that, or, in the way that self-sabotage sneaks into the subconscious, I didn’t let myself. Either way, I was exhausted enough by the end of the day that I didn’t grant myself enough time to do the things I love, to study what I love, to create what I love, to do what brings me joy. Case in point: I only read two books in November. For me, that’s weird.
I let the exhaustion get so bad that the universe noticed: this past week, I tested positive for COVID, and spent about four days in a sleepy, brain fog haze, replete with all the awful symptoms that I would not wish on my worst enemy. And I got a calmer version (thanks, vaccines!). My symptoms have subsided now into simple congestion, thank god, but I’ve had to be quarantined until today (the 17th).
COVID was not fun. At all. But, in a weird way, I’m grateful for the week off. I had been going, going, going for months, and had begun to lose interest in my passions. Burnout had gone on full mental attack, bringing with it the creative blockages, physical illness, and physiological yelling that it tends to. The week off granted me, firstly, rest: I swear to god and goddess and universe that I slept nearly non-stop for about four days; when I was awake, I was able to watch a few films I’d been meaning to catch up on. When the brain fog waned and my fatigue began to lessen, I was able to work on the things I felt passionate about, set my own hours. I was able to enjoy what I was reading and working on again, instead of feeling the invasive thumping of a clock’s hand counting the passing time. That part of the quarantine week felt, frankly, awesome, as did the opportunity it gave me to deep clean and revive the space I live in.
I am not a resolution maker. I used to be, but then realized the resolutions I set acted instead as a self-imposed deadline, dead weight on my own anxiety. It worsened my internal voice instead of bettering it. Still, I do try to craft goals and desires for a new year: though the turn of a calendar may be an arbitrary, human-created thing, it still feels nice to have that feeling of tabula rasa. As the winter months return to the green livelihood of spring, reflection and internal work feels good, if not imperative.
Before contracting COVID, I crafted a list of goals. I drew oracle and tarot cards for the year to come. I gave myself new phrases to repeat to myself. As I feel my anxiety return as my quarantine ends (hey, I’ve still got a crapton of internal work to do, and I own up to it), I wanted to share some of them here. As inspiration, perhaps, but moreso to act as a speaking into the universe, as a manifestation, as a place of accountability.
My Oracle Draw (from the Literary Witches deck):
Chicken: the cackle / ancient past / lore
Mushrooms: quiet growth / the hidden / peace
My Tarot Draw (from the OK Tarot deck):
Two of Cups: true love / mirroring of oneself / relationships
Justice: balance / fairness / karma
Eight of Cups: leaving things behind / starting over / uncertainty
Phrases and Goals:
Social media is for utilization, not self-scrutinization.
Create first; edit second.
There is always time for joy.
Therapy is not just another bullet point.
Live within your body.
Observe.
You are not falling behind.
Time is a renewable resource, no matter what others say.
Five Words for 2022:
Power
Reclamation
Gentleness
Vibrancy
Balance
Here’s to new projects. To patience with oneself. To internal work. To the mistakes and the slip-ups. To music, and books, and acting, and creation, and art. Here’s to a world revival. Here’s to new beginnings.
I’m feeling (20)22.
But first! A Collage Retrospective of 2021! :)