New projects here, new projects there, new projects everywhere. This is me these days:
A gorgeous setting. The sun is rising on windmills and water and adventure. But it is really freaking windy. It's disorienting and sort of violent. I've got Syllable Series, Literary Disco, the Mark Twain House, the Connecticut Breast Health Initiative, The Tough Mudder, Sea Tea Improv, and a grant to write hundreds of pages of personal essays. And those are just the major gusts.
There are the little whips of wind: learning to cook, the whiskey club, a trip to Seattle, two kittens to take care of, paying off my credit card, keeping up with my friends and family, writing and directing a five-minute sketch for a festival. Pretty soon it all swirls around and I can't feel which winds are North/South/East/West. It's just weather.
It's easy to feel that being overwhelmed is inevitable. Those close to me say that it's impossible for me not to be this way-- I'm always walking out on rocky cliffs at dawn, even when I know a storm is coming. I'd always rather go to Greece than stay in Connecticut.
It's mental. I could just cackle into the storm. (And often do.) But alas, I think I have to accept that I will never be as suave and self assured, made better by the wind, as certain people in my life.
