It’s nearly holiday time. We’re edging towards that bit of the year when most of us carve out a week or two (the clever ones have negotiated August off which is admirably grown-up) to exhale. We may not quite dare do the out of office thing, we’re more likely to try to confine our ‘holiday homework’ to an hour every morning or something equally boundaried, but nonetheless, it’s nearly holiday time. So why aren’t I excited?
It’s this: I don’t want or need a holiday. I want and need a sabbatical. I haven’t had more than two weeks off work (except once or twice for illness/operation etc.) for 20 years. I have merely… kept going. Just like you, probably. Ploughed on. Wound myself up and pressed go. And that’s fine except I’m increasingly getting the sense that I’m singing from the same old tired, grubby song sheet. That I’ve lost my lustre. Gloomily, I’m careering towards a kind of ‘Is this it?’
When I say sabbatical, I mean… air. A sense of freedom. Connecting with the power of possibility. And I don’t WANT to try to do that with five minutes of meditation each day (which I’ve remembered to do precisely twice this year). And I don’t WANT to try to do that with a walk in the park, attempting to be Eckhart Tolle present while staring at a leaf. I want to float on the breeze. I want to stumble upon new facets of my heart and head. I want release.
And I don’t believe I am alone. Life – as well as being magical – is full and tough and scary. I am eroding when I ought to be evolving. I blank out when I ought to connect. And I can’t help but wonder… is it all going wrong? I just don’t have the time to find out… And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe…
