Letters from the Universe

It is true that the Universe intended you to be exactly where you
are.  But, it is absolutely vital to grasp that the intent is not for
you to settle in and live your life in comfort and superficial peace.

This is a modified version of a quote I came across this past weekend, which I will take even further into a very personal translation: “Elena, this is the Universe talking.  Working half-time doesn’t mean you’re not working the other half of the time.  And yes, I will be that vague.  Deal with it.”

…Or something along those lines.

So, I should do stuff.  “Meaningful stuff,” the stuff that I’m supposed to do now that I’ve actually made the decision to modify my lifestyle to make room for health. Since the Universe insists on being vague, I’ll have to wing it, I’ll have to “right-brain it,” because, well, it’s the part I know how to use the most.  I’m hoping that tapping into creative power is the way to lupie warrior power and hopefully, in the middle of all the artsy fartsy, other things might start making sense, too.  Maybe. I’m willing to give it a try.

The problem is, my right brain is rusty.  Very rusty.  In fact, I’ve come to discover that I haven’t used very much of it at all.  My right brain “cred” has disintegrated with time and neglect, with overwork and sickness.  My brain’s trauma last summer has given me the opportunity to feel like a clean slate, to have a clean slate.  I’m right at the starting line of rediscovering the “creative me.”  This is also about keeping my brain agile in order to battle the cognitive shenanigans of “lupus brain” and the possibility of having another episode of psychosis.

Dance.  Draw/Paint.  Write. Cook.

I can’t dance.  My last art class was in junior high.  I’m a lazy blogger & I haven’t written anything substantial since I was 17 years old.  Other people cook for me, mostly my parents (and I live on my own).  ‘Nuff said.

So, that’s alot of stuff, right?  And usually, when someone is stupidly ambitious, it all goes to shit, especially people who have an auto-immune disease and tend to skip their “chill pill.”  Yes, yes, I know, which is why I will take my aforementioned list of artistic tomfoolery (and yes, cooking is artistic) and turn those verbs into what I hope to be convincing, attainable goals in my next post.  And hopefully, I will do it with more grace than I did during last night’s dance choreography. I have sworn to practice this week for my poor little ego’s sake… and for Madonna.  That 30 seconds of her song will never be the same again.

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