Sanctuary

[vaneramos]

Monday night, it hit: all the stress of past weeks reaching a climax. Twinges of anxiety surged and retreated during the weekend, finally breaking over my body in the granddaddy tide of all panic attacks, unlike any before. There were no thoughts or feelings, just pure physical electricity: the prickling of skin increasing, giving way to chest pains, dizzyness and breathlessness. For the first time in years, I couldn't talk it down, and deep breathing didn't help.

Last week on the phone I told Mom's youngest sister, Nancy, that it feels like I've inherited a piece of Mom's spirit. I returned from our last visit, a month ago, with more energy than is customary. Nancy said, "If you inherited some of Donna's gumption, that is a wonderful thing."

But I spent most of the weekend doing practically nothing, playing computer games. Apparently Mom's spirit couldn't stand it, and rose in rebellion. Panic was part of her temperament too, after all, though she never recognized it.

I washed dishes, started the bread machine, talked to Sylvie's Sarah on the phone (we told stories and laughed), then Danny. I didn't want to go out though; preferred riding the energy to accomplish housework. Afterwards, restless heat suffused my flesh for several hours. I took my temperature, but that was normal. The fire was all chemistry.

As Sarah D. and I have started working through the book Creating a Life Worth Living, I need to pick an "ecstatic task": fifteen minutes of open-minded, unproductive, process-oriented creative activity every morning. I want to try something different from the usual free-written journal, imbued as it is with years of travail. Maybe meditation, or keeping a dream journal. Walking would be a good option, but this is the wrong time of year to start. Last night I tidied and vacuumed the corner of my office by the south window to create an indoor sanctuary, a practise long neglected. I dusted off the plant stand and placed a pot of red shamrock purchased last week. Beside it went the deep, green armchair and a small table with a gentle lamp for whatever I'm reading or working on. I've set aside the place and time from which to sit and watch the sun come up, let the ecstatic task be whatever it wants. All that's necessary is concentration without agenda.

I haven't remembered a dream in months, but mere intention always reaps surprising results. This morning I got up, went to the green chair and wrote it down.

We were all (you, everyone I know, and many others) returning from a long train trip, filing onto the platform. The train cars had been well-appointed within, but from the outside looked like pig trucks, with long strips of corrugated metal and air slots between. The rooms of the station were immense, high and bland, more like an airplane hangar. Most of us had pre-purchased large chocolate muffins. These were displayed in refrigerated bench cases along with other cafeteria food beside the platform. We had to find the ones with our names labeled on top in thick black marker. Donna, an acquaintance from the Guelph queer community, found hers and tried to reach through a tough layer of plastic wrap that covered the whole case, but to no avail. We had to wait for someone to come and unlock the plastic.

Apparently I have dispensation from the rule about not being able to read dream words, because I could discern most of the label on Donna's muffin. Her last name started with K, contained and N and an E, and ended in L: it was KUNZEL or KNECHTEL. I don't know her surname in real life.

I suspect I might be intolerant to gluten, and I don't have the will to do anything about it. When I remembered the dream, it felt like it related somehow to that problem.

Another snowstorm. I'm waiting to go into work a little later. It appears we're going to have a dry spell after this organ in Dundas is finished, so I might be job-hunting again come April.