The fact that life goes on is both a blessing and just a strange, strange, unfortunate thing. Several times last week I thought that surely I will be dead by morning — from physical and emotional exhaustion, from being cracked open and turned inside-out, from questioning everything that I knew about my life to be true. But then I woke up the next day and I wasn’t dead. And I am grateful for that, obviously. But it was also disappointing — can’t the world see that I am having a crisis here? How can there be weddings at my hotel, and happy partiers, and bright afternoon sun after a day of rain, and happy shoppers on the main street, and packing to be done and flights to catch when I am so obviously about to die here? I just don’t understand…
The same thing is true when something great happens. Like yesterday when I had an article published in The New York Times. I worked hard to get there and I am ecstatic about it — and maybe that’s why yesterday when my article went live I expected… something. Shouldn’t there be a shift in your life when something big like this happens? But nothing happened to me. I was sick. I was in bed. I went to see a doctor. I slept and drank tea. Life went on, without much notice.
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