I’ve read and heard many times recently that creativity flourishes best when it’s given space. You need downtime, boredom even, to allow ideas to bump up against one another. To create friction, to flourish.
If that’s the case, this will be the most uninspired post I’ve ever written.
Last week life turned on a dime with one phone call. Nothing life and death, just big changes at work that dropped just a handful of new responsibilities in my lap. Since then, I’ve been at my computer by 5:30 a.m. every day on back-to-back calls, trying to figure out knows what and bombarding Google’s servers with my bad ass spreadsheets. (It coincided nicely with my Ironman 70.3 St. George taper, however, so someone must be watching out for me.)
I’ve always disliked the “I’m busier than you are” conversational one-upmanship. And so while I want to share and process out loud how CRAZY I’m feeling right now, because that’s who I am (and really, why I blog at all), I’m disgusted by the words as I type them. “Drowning,” “barely hanging on,” and all their theatrical cousins.
The truth is, I haven’t been terribly busy over the past few months. (I’m not a bad person! Really!) By this, I don’t mean bored or not involved in anything meaningful, just that I’ve had time. For extracurricular pursuits and long rides and leisure.
Until last week, when an army invaded my garden.
What I didn’t expect was the high. I’d forgotten how energizing it can be to have to manage so many moving pieces. To dance and bounce between tasks, checking boxes, kicking ass and taking names. I didn’t expect the rush of having to squeeze workouts in at dusk, stomach growling because I’ve been too engaged in what I’m doing to remember to eat.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to wish, for just a minute, that I could get my nutrients through a tube rather than having to buy, prepare, and actually consume, food.
I’d lost sight of what it feels like to be this engaged. To be needed this much.
I’d grown out of touch with the Sagittarius archer in me, the pursuer, the manipura chakra if you’re into that. And I’m feeling alive.
And I’m feeling so many questions bubble up. Questions I don’t yet know how to answer. Modern questions that all of us—not just women—face, and which might not even be given me to answer. Like where I am on the spectrum of fiery hunger and ambition, and believing that sometimes it’s OK not to want more.
What does all of this have to do with triathlon? Nothing and everything. Leading up to Oceanside I was so invested—laser-focused on details like tapering and nutrition. Now we leave for St. George in an hour and I just hope I packed running shoes.