I’ve been in a funk for the past few weeks. I don’t know why or where it came from but it’s there. And the more I talk to people, the more everyone else says they feel like they’re in a funk too.
The funk started with feeling…well…not feeling anything at all. Just kind of blah, bored, zoned out, foggy headed, lazy, eyes glazed over. My energy was low and I wasn’t getting hungry. Yes, the girl that sometimes eats more dinner than all of her friends combined (the food her friends eat, not her friends themselves) wasn’t feeling hungry. The ravenous, GET IN MY BELLY feeling I usually get every three hours didn’t exist. I knew something was off.
But now the funk has morphed into something even more funky. I can’t even tell you how many glasses of water, chalk bags, sets of car keys, iPhones, bowls of oatmeal, carabiners, jars of peanut butter, spoons, pens, and contact lenses I have dropped in the past week. A good portion of my t-shirts have dribbles of some kind of breakfast down the front of them. I’ve spent more time cleaning up after my clumsy ass than I’d like to admit. Nothing feels easy. Even something delightful and simple like making tea–I spill some water hot water on my hand, leave the burner on, forget about the tea all together and come back to the kitchen an hour later to find it cold.
The other day I thought I had lost a bracelet, assumed I left it at the climbing gym, texted my friend to pick it up for me, and then found it tangled in my hair ten minutes later.
Last night I opened the fridge and a whole row of condiments spilled out on to the floor. For the past few days I’ve been able to laugh at all of this awkwardness and bad timing and trip ups and slip ups. But for some reason, at that moment, the teriyaki sauce and apple cider vinegar at my feet made me cry. The kind of cry where you’re laughing a little too, because you know it’s ridiculous and there’s starving children in Africa and people way worse off than you but damnit you’ve had enough. So I just sat down on the kitchen floor, Upavistha Konasana style, and picked up the pickles, the balsamic, the Green Goddess dressing, and let the tears flow.
Thankfully my mama came into the kitchen a few minutes later and said, oh honey don’t worry about it, I’ll pick it up. Is there anything better than a Mom when you’re crying over something you know that’s stupid?
So I went in my room and sat on my bed. What’s going on, I thought. For someone who is annoyingly sensitive and in tune with what’s happening in my body, being confused about the what and why of my energy felt unsafe. So I did what I practice doing in yoga and climbing and living–I observed.
I closed my eyes and dug around for my breath. Shallow, almost nonexistent, catching, rough. As I consciously deepened my breath, it started bringing oxygen and awareness back into all these places it hadn’t touched in a while. And honestly–the places it was touching were hurting. Not emotional hurt, but physical, lactic acid and lack of nutrients kind of hurt. My whole physical body felt sore. My bones felt heavy, joints creaky, my blood thick and slow. Even my brain felt swollen. I felt so tired.
What the hell is going on, I asked myself again.
I still don’t know what’s going on. I felt better today. Still off, but not as weird and definitely no crying over spilled Dijon.
I went for a late afternoon run today, and it was so beautiful out in the hills. The kind of beautiful that scares me to write about, because it’s too divine for something like English to stab around at. It was warm, balmy, uncharacteristic of mid-October. The creek is still dry and most of the blackberries are still pink. Juicy poison oak creeps up the trunks of pine, the smell of rotting pears is dense. I see wild turkeys on the hillside, strutting along. A thick pack of mosquitoes is illuminated by a band of setting sun. My face feels hot and I sweat like it’s July.