In live television the cameraman counts down the seconds before a reporter goes on-air, saying “five, four, three.” The two and the one are silent finger gestures finishing the countdown.
Those last two seconds are rather like freefalling… what will happen next? What will come out of your mouth? What will be said, done and heard? Then the camera’s hot and there’s no going back, only forward.
Fifteen months ago when Watkins said, “Yes,” to publishing my book, I was depressed it was going to take so long to hit the shelves. Now, one month to go, it’s like looking into the lens of a camera when the red light comes on.
Time for ACTION!
But despite the pressure and lengthening TO DO list I often find myself staring vacantly out the French doors in my office, watching the swallows fly acrobatics. When this happens my inner drill sergeant goes berserk. “WAKE UP!” he screams. “Schedule interviews! Write your blog! Call the book stores! Crank it out! GO GO GO!”
Before I can even pick up the phone, however, my newly unearthed feminine half jumps in. “Hey, just chill would you? She’s got enough going on without you bellowing at her.”
Sergeant Macho stops mid-rant, shocked. “What did you say?”
Goddess-me ignores him. “Don’t worry dear,” she purrs. “Staring out the doors is good for releasing all that tension you’ve got in your belly. Take a few slow breaths and relax.”
“What a crock,” Sarge snaps. “She needs to focus and get off her ass!”
Athena (for so I’ve named my wise new inner feminine councilor) turns fiercely on her masculine counterpart. “Look. We’ve been doing things your way for sixty-one years and what has it gotten her except a bunch of stress?”
“Wha… why it’s gotten her everything,” Sarge stutters. “Jobs, houses, trips to Europe. It got the book about you girls written.”
“Hey guys?” I venture. “Hello? This is my life you’re talking about …”
The inner argument continues as the phone rings. It’s my publicist. “God, John,” I say. “I’m so freaked out. I’ve got so much to do and…”
He shrugs it off. “Don’t worry. Even if it’s a disaster and we only sell a few hundred copies look at what you’ve learned. Look at what I’ve learned from you these past few months. And isn’t that what your whole book is about? Seeing all of life as a gift, trusting it to be perfect just as it is? Everything will be fine.”
“Exactly what I was saying,” Athena pouts.
“Bleeding heart commie-liberal,” Sarge growls. “You girls have polluted him with all this ‘go with the flow’ crap.”
Ignoring the background head noise and the tension in my stomach, John and I hash out plans. As soon as we hang up, the phone rings again. It’s Ri, the producer who shot the videos for the book to put on Amazon and my other sites. Before I know it she’s talking about production pressures and her last two films and all her worry about making them a success.
“Know what I do when the pressure gets too much?” she asks.
“No. What?”
“I remind myself of a quote from the Bhagavad-Gita. Wanna hear it?”
“Sure.”
“Relinquishing the fruit of action, the disciplined man attains perfect peace; the undisciplined man is in bondage, attached to the fruits of his desire.’”
“Hunh?” I say.
“Appreciate what you do for the doing of it,” she interprets. “You’ve got fuck-all control over what the world does with the fruits of your labor. So you might as well enjoy your work and let things happen.”
Wasn’t that just the truth. Outside a cyclist whizzed past in the late summer sunshine, helmetless, hair streaming in the wind. Hmmm. I hadn’t had my bike out all summer and God knows the Pacific Northwest summers were glorious—and short.
“Hey Ri?” I interrupted. “I gotta go. Talk later!”
Inside my head all was quiet. My tummy felt warm and content. Grinning I wafted my cursor over the ‘sleep’ command on my computer and got up to go find my cycling shorts.