"Do you need a new mission?" she asked me.
"What? No," I answered. "I don't think I can focus right now."
"But that's what your obsessive mind does: Focuses."
"I know." You think I don't know this, I wondered? I said, "And now it's only focusing on this."
She had a point.
So I told her she had a point.
I told her my immediate goal was to fix up my home. Make my home my home. I thought of the sharp pointed tips of staples, nails and tacks that would allow me to adorn my walls with pictures to be hung. Drapes to be draped. Pillows to be puffed. Sewn with my own two hands. With pins. And needles.
Pins and needles. Up my spine. (You say down? Good for you. Mine run up. Into my scalp, then make my hair feel like its growing. If it's a really good idea, my tummy clenches. Kinda like I'm gonna hurl. In a good way.)
But she had more than a point. She had the spinning wheel needle with the single drop of Sleeping (or in this case, Crying) Beauty's blood and I was a warrior princess dressed in college-rule-lined sheets of fresh paper. She had a point the equivalent of a bright shiny No. 2 pencil.
But I didn't realize that until later. Just like I didn't realize that I didn't need a new mission.
I thought my story was about fighting cancer.
Turns out it was about living life.
And the above conversation was two months ago, during which I've been having a hell of a time with my mission — the first of which was to get this post (which I wrote the same day) up.
Turns out living life right now is a hell of a lot like treading water. I've gone under, swallowed chlorine (lots), lost a contact lens (or two) and even had my ass kicked by one hell of an undertow when I jumped headfirst into a wave.
So pardon me while I've taken my time figuring out that's all I've got right now — time.
Or is that I don't have nearly enough?
That's the beauty of being me, procrastiperfectionator extraordinaire. It may take time, but I always, somehow, eventually, often painfully, but ultimately joyfully, get the right answer.