This morning I woke up with the migraine of life.  And no voice–I’ve been practically whispering since Friday.  I was a little frustrated because illness generally effs with my psyche not to mention my plans.

As for my plans, it eliminated the opportunity to get in my morning run–a newly revisited endeavor (because a girl needs to keep things fresh) and I couldn’t particpate in my latest scheme to get a little cash–painting cutesy personalized designs on pre-ordered wares.  (Which, by the way, is fun as all get out)!

As for my psyche, sickness makes me feel all vulnerable and like I’m not doing my wellness thing right.

Once my efforts at wellness were decidedly covert (I didn’t wanna be labeled as a “health nut” because of my interests) and fairly misguided (like one of my schemes to lose 10 pounds in 2 months by eating practically anything that read “fat free” including but not limited to pretzels, animal crackers, and rice cakes).

Back then, my attempts at psychological wellness (like everybody else I have/had “issues”) led me to keep a lot of  journals and collect song lyrics that I fit my life awkwardly into.

That was many moons and a totally different metabolism ago; with a smirk I can admit all that corniness was what I’ve decided to be constantly in a state of doing–becoming.

Lately–you’ve heard me say this lots of times already and to promise to stop saying it too–my becoming is like the nightly adolescent joint discomfort my grandmother describes as growing pains.  It sucks.

Probably I should be shocked that I don’t have migraines all the time.

In the last couple of years the times my blood pressure has given me a sense that my head is about to explode have been fewer than those years shortly after grad school when I found myself doing “meaningful work” and becoming the way I’d planned–independently housekeeping in my refuge-like, sage-snuffed home, reading  and going to readings regularly if not often.

Under the circumstances, I would almost expect stress to send me into something like a  glycemic meltdown.  Yet the last one of those I had was at my first spin class a little less than a year ago when I had only eaten an apple or something equally under-nourishing in preparation.

So I get an email from my mama last week.  She writes a family newsletter two or three times a year for both sides of my family and wants to know, like that taunting little Facebook status box I have been known to leave empty for weeks on end, “What’s up with you?”

Here I am convinced I am at my most stagnant wondering what in all of the creation shall I tell.   And I did a monthly meter-style round up of the last few months only to discover my becoming. I guess you get enough rejections and forget about the acceptances (and all the new stuff you wrote in between)…

So I discovered things have been happening for me.  Slowly, but surely.  Happening.

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