Friday morning I had a severe case of angst.
- over my professional life — after being unemployed I seem to be creating my own little business in a freelance mode and it scares me
- over being on the cusp of 46 — as a friend of mine put it, “your 50s are easier than your 40s not because things improve but because you no longer view your body’s failings as an insult.”
- over my kid about to start at a new school where his homeroom will have 4 times as many kids as the graduating class at his last school
- over my kid being on the cusp of teen-hood
- over all the things I felt inadequate about at that particular moment
I am well aware these are a priveleged person’s issues. I was not concerned about food, water, shelter, health, impending invasions, storms, droughts, plagues of locusts, what to wear to the Oscars or any of the sundry other real issues that many folks have to deal with on a daily basis.
Still I was angsting. Discomfited in my soul. At the time I was walking the dog. We were in the park and she was off the leash so I just took a moment, closed my eyes and asked for help. A bit of a prayer. A request for a little relief from what I suspect was an overly sensitive case of self-obsession. Maybe a hint as to what I should do next to get rid of this feeling like sand-paper was being rubbed upon my psyche.
I closed my eyes for a second or two and that was enough. For when I opened them what did I see but the dog. Taking a dump. I knew then what to do. Clean up after the dog. Then continue to walk the dog home. A simple direction. Certainly not a glorious one nor — for many — a profound one. But it was enough. I had a sense of purpose for the moment and that was enough. I cleaned up after the dog and felt better.