Crosswinds

I'm in Toronto again, one night at home, after another whirlwind tour of Ontario. Good to see my family in Ottawa, and important friends... then home. Only my second night in my own bed in August. I went out for coffee this morning early (after being skeeved to notice that there is an unopened carton of milk in my fridge that expired in July -- like the chip pan, I'm afraid to open it) -- and saw my friend/neighbour's cute-head boyfriend leaving for work. My glimpse of him the closest I've seen of her all summer -- synecdoche for Kat, like her nice little vintage honda (C500?) that perches in my parking spot.

Pulled by currents across the border again this afternoon, feeling a low level hum of anxiety about the time/space continuum between now and my dissertation deadlines. Have to have a full draft done by March. A constant thrum of worry under the skin. Sometimes it feels possible, and sometimes I feel implosive about it.

I'm having that same experience with so many things in my life -- everything feels like a STRETCH right now. I have a car that I *admire* but haven't quite bonded with yet, and I still stall it on hills. I have a kayak that makes me feel so jaunty, so powerful, when I'm paddling away, but when I'm hit by cross-winds, I suddenly find myself battling against the boat, not gliding as part of it. I have a relationship that fits me until I'm suddenly cold-water-bucket hit with a moment of GEEZ, I don't know how to do THIS, and I feel like my arms are flailing for the edges.

I was noticing what was happening with the hills in the car the other day. I was all confident until I was in Oakville visiting J one day and, inattentively, I stalled when the stoplight turned green on a pretty steep hill. I jittered, and threw it into gear, and roared onto the 401. Then, found myself on Spadina, in the same kind of position, and started fretting while I was stopped that it would happen again... and of course it did. Now I have this total approach avoidance, and I find myself all hot with fret through the whole red light, and sure enough, I'll stall. I get *tense*, self-conscious, and then I do exactly the thing that sinks me. The adrenalin stiffens both my body and my ability to reason.

It's the same thing with the kayak -- I think, damn this wind, and I start to FOCUS REALLY HARD on going EXACTLY where I want the boat to go. It doesn't go, and I work harder, and I start grunting like Monica Seles with every stroke. I fight it. I emerge out of the wind and F asks me how I am and I burst into tears. What's the opposite of flow?

F and I have conversations where I feel like the same kind of terrier, going for the same answer with ferocity. And it's what happens with my work -- I drive myself into a fret that leaves no room for creative thinking.

It's all deeply circuitous, given the focus for my diss. on generativity. Knowing that it's the open-sidedness, loose coupling, that seems to create space for generativity. What's the opposite of pouncing? But there I am, reliving almost physically, constantly, the reminders that the tight grip on anything limits the possibilities for what can happen.

So. Back across the border, light foot on the clutch, prying my internal hand off the gearshift one clenched finger at a time.