I've been thinking about life again. You would think I would grow out of it. I am all inside out and discomfited (is that a word?). Things are out of joint. I think it is Yeats:
Turning and turning in a widening gyre
The falcon cannot see the falconer.
Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold.
I try to work but can settle at nothing. My attempt to work from home this week seems to be leaving chaos behind it, with good people failing and falling and sending me things which are poor and need to be done again. I think this is my fault. They are too inexperienced and trying to supervise them from a distance is clearly not working, not enough support, not enough interaction. I can tell that they do not understand what they have done wrong and although I am patient, partly because I think it is my fault, I can feel their anxiety. It is not comfortable.
Perhaps I do not have the temperament to work from home. Without people to talk to, meetings to attend, adrenalin to rush, I drift and fail to engage. Ian is away too so there is just too much time on my own, too much time at the computer, not enough chat and laughter. I am tired to my bones so that even three days of waking in my own bed with no travelling to do still find me hollow with it. I look in the mirror and see an old face. Where have I gone?
I am not a worrier: I am a doer. I used to have scant sympathy with my grandmother's fretting, worrying about everything and everybody as though the world would stop if she left off her worrying work. But I don't seem able to set aside the knowledge that some of my own people are not ok, not well or not happy. And Ian is tired too, pulled here and there by the needs of others.
I have tried the usual cure alls. I have walked round the garden and looked out and away at the view. I need to dig deep and be still.