There’s a moment after meeting an artist I admire when I mentally slap myself. Palm smacking my imagined forehead, I fixate: I said THAT? Why? Why did I use those words? Did I communicate anything? What was I thinking?
Which is an overly poetic way of saying that I burned out. Hard. My habitual multitasking and perfectionism (which got me through highschool and college) broke my adult life. I was balancing on the knife’s edge - except it felt like pretty stable ground to me.
Then, my beloved dog - the little four-legged bundle of stubbornness and unyielding love - did what all living things do. He aged. He died. And I plummeted