Lately I’ve been all fired up – not about anything or at anyone in particular – just a futile, yet fierce fury at the world (Ok I’m fuming at Mr Yang today and work frustrations have me almost boiling over, but I truly think there’s some cosmic fireworks going on – the last fiery breathe of the Chinese Year of the Dragon).
If only all this heat I feel could somehow transform me into a hot-bed of passion, because who knows things need firing up, but NO – it just makes me ferocious. (There was a time when my body was so flaming hot, sizzling supposedly, that poor Mr Yang’s sperm were being fried, according to the naturopath we consulted early in the days of our infertility – being hot to trot apparently didn’t do me any good).
The fire I feel these days comes out in frustration mostly, ferocity sometimes and in the (occasionally) frequent F-bomb – even in front of the kids. I can’t even blame hot flushes, as thankfully I’m not there yet. Hate to think how hot (under the collar) I’ll be when the big M does strike. Frankly I think it is sneaking up on me already, judging by just how frequently I fume – you can practically see steam coming out of my ears much of the time. Diagnose PMT (Pre-Menopausal Terror) – suffered by my poor family when I’m around!
What makes me so frustrated, so furious with myself, is that all this fire (yang energy) doesn’t seem to be going to good use (like cooking up a great future). It’s a fire fuelled by fear on the one hand, impatience on the other, so it’s only ever going to go up in smoke.
I’m pretty sure I used up my meagre quota of patience just waiting for my kids – such a shame when parenting requires all the patience you can get! And even when I sweat out all this yang energy in hot yoga, I don’t seem to be able to sweat out the fear. Intellectually I know I’ve faced some pretty scary things in the past (like the fear of never having children), but like a big sook I somehow still let fear frighten me (like the fear of never being a good enough mother, of never finding some sort of balance between motherhood and the rest of my life). I’m scared shitless at times.
So I’m impatient for change, yet fearful of it. Which leaves me stuck, burning up with desire (although definately not for Mr Yang because today my anger is squarely directed at him, as much as myself).
Sound familiar (the burning up with desire bit at least)? Being fired up is great if it’s for a good cause. Having fire in your belly is great if you use it to make good things happen. But yang energy that isn’t channelled into right actions can easily fume out as fiery reactions. Kinda like a hot geyser.
Or as My Yang (the Fireman, ha, ha) tells pre-schoolers – there are good fires and there are bad fires. A good fire is when you light the candles on your birthday cake (and feel good that you’re still around to blow them out). A bad fire burns the house down.
And then there are false alarm calls at the last minute of Mr Yang’s overnight shift when he hasn’t organised anyone to come in a little early for him on Miss Yin’s first day back at school today (just in case, or he could have rode his bike in to work, to be sure), leaving me stuck at home with the kids, without a car and unsure whether to make alternative arrangements to get to school, until it gets even later and I end up calling a cab, Miss Yin melts down, and I then have to decide that she can’t go to school after all in such an hysterical state and so have to send the cab away. And I’m left, well, fuming.
FUCK it was good to get that off my chest (sorry). Empathy please everyone!
But back to my general burning up and how to deal with it before everything turns to ashes.
I know that if I keep rushing impatiently to light the fire of my desires, only to let fear snuff it out, that I can’t expect to feel all content, warm and cosy in front of the fire anytime soon. I know I need to take the (Yin) time to burn off those stupid fears until they’re charcoal, then stoke the flames of my passions with lots of hope and hard work, realising it’ll be a while before I can sit back, glass of wine in hand, warmed by the smouldering coals (of satisfaction, success).
That’s where I’m at. Impatiently fearful, but trying not to be so fiery. I promise.
I’d love to know that I’m not alone in getting angry because I’m anxious for change, yet anxious about it.
PLEASE – I can’t be the only one!