Or the lack thereof.
I’ve been in a funk for about four months now. Today I read something about passion and finding a reason to do something and it dawned on me. I have allowed passion to slip through my fingers. I’m not certain when it happened or if it was a gradual process, but I woke up one day and didn’t have any passion about living life burning in me. Maybe it was the months of living in pain or the fact that I work in an unfriendly environment or I hurt too much to garden or I gained weight or the dog or…
I really don’t know what happened. Everything feeds into everything. Hurting my knee paralyzed my gardening and my walking; not walking added to my weight gain. Not gardening put a damper on my spirit, too: there is something about getting dirt under my fingernails that revitalizes my spirit. I tried gardening with Murphy, but now there are holes in my flower beds, ripped up shreds of weed guard, and I have thrown up my hands in disgust. One cannot garden with Murphy: he wants to help.
I could rant on Murphy. He went through an awful stage of trying to be the Alpha Dog, an act that hit its apex about the time I was laid up with my knee after surgery and not able to do much about his bad behavior. His owner was out of town. Things came to a climax by the time his owner came home and we have been on a steady Doggy Improvement Course since. Murphy still tries stupid stuff, but he gets to take a lot of Time Outs and he’s really getting better. Slowly. My arm has had time to heal completely – for awhile there, I was getting a new nip every day. I just heard him “talk back” to his boss, followed by a sharp reprimand, so Murphy is probably in Time Out again. He is by far the unruliest kid we have raised.
Work is another passion-depleting issue. I have been at this particular office for 18 months and I still find it hard to get to know people. It isn’t me: I am gregarious. But I have worked beside people for 18 months who have not bothered to even ask me what my name is (I know their names). How rude is that? The art of making conversation dictates that you ask someone what their name is, and if you forget, you ask again. Making an effort to know someone’s name is not just polite: it is good business sense. The funny thing is: the people who have never asked me my name are real estate agents and a mortgage broker. Hmmmm…..
The rude people are easy enough to work around, but my closest coworker is an emotional wreck. I should save that rant for some day when I have a lot of time on my hands. That rant covers everything from premarin to set minds. When I’m not walking on eggshells around her, she’s actually pretty fun. The problem is: I don’t know when I should be walking on egg shells and when I can have fun. She should wear a sign: “I’m in a BAD mood today” or “All is Hunky Dory today.” Just for me, of course.
Excuses, excuses, excuses. I think I need to get past excuses and find a passion again. Paint or garden or go for a prolonged walk in the woods. I prefer the latter, even with Murphy. (Actually, Trolls and Ogres aside, he’s very good on trails. And less prone to argue.) The walking would help me lose that extra fifteen pounds I’ve added. (Yes: its “only” fifteen pounds of added weight. I have friends who battle with larger figures. But fifteen pounds is a lot of extra weight to me, and it makes me feel ugly, sluggish, and old. I need to get rid of it.)
I’ve allowed myself to be a slug for four months or so. Its time to come alive and fight to find a passion.
