Friday nights are consistently glorious. Especially if I don’t have any plans. The release from the week, the promise of rest, and anticipation of time and space that is free and open.
Then Saturday morning comes. And something inside starts to wobble. I was overbooked last weekend, so I clear most of the day today, because I am wise, and I learn from the past.
The weekend is here. That means freedom, which should mean feeling good. But something else happens.
The guardrails of the work week fall away. I am left floating in open space. What I thought would feel deliciously free, restful, and delightful suddenly feels like free falling, without a parachute or even the plastic edges of a waterslide to make it feel safe enough to feel fun. This is not fun at all.
This open, empty space has created a vacuum — and in rush all the ideas and tasks that have built up during the week. Even if the ideas are creative and energizing, even if the tasks are ones I truly want to engage in, there is a panic. There is overwhelm.
I am lost in a space without structure — no rails, no walls, no ground or sky, no sense of up or down; no rhythm, no punctuation, no shape at all. Just a nebulous, dreadful, vast, open, and empty space, quickly filling up.
This vacuum sucks in every thought that has been waiting in the wings. The empty space is now disturbingly crowded with every thought I didn’t have time to give attention to before. Long lists of tasks that are needed to run an adult life, creative ideas that are now — given a glance and breath — rapidly blossoming and threatening to wither if not swiftly collected for their fruit.
If that wasn’t enough, I’m also reviewing my entire life — questioning every aspect, probing the authenticity of each. (Am I so well-practiced in gratitude and finding the glimmers in people and places and things, that I’ve deluded myself, and I don’t actually like any of my friends, this town, or anything that I spend my time doing? Is my entire life fundamentally opposed to my true desires?)
It’s been a full week since I last had the luxury of checking in and listening attentively to my heart. What is a constant quiet gnawing discontent during the week is now a full-blown crisis.
I do nothing about it. I miraculously remember to relax. I remember that for me, chilling the fuck out is usually the answer to all my problems. I slow down. I remember moderation.
I remember that the very thoughts that drive creativity and the building of an earthly life, if allowed to run amok, can weave stories that drag me away from any peace within it.
What came rushing into the vacuum has swirled around so fast that it dissolves, like sugar stirred in hot tea. I am still ungrounded, still floating in space, still uncertain, and a bit wobbly. But my feet and hands have stopped their groping for anything solid. The guardrails, the walls, the sense of up and down — they were all imaginary anyway. So is, well, everything.
I decide to conjure a wand in my right hand. I ask myself — what do I truly want to create? What would make today feel good and fun? Inside the vacuum, now more settled and clear of clutter, it is expansive, featureless and dark. I wave my hand, let there be light, and I fly.