Yin and Yang

An auspicious week draws near:  First off, as of today I am done with birthday parties for another year (I'm celebrating with a delicious bag of barbecue chips); secondly, on Monday, I will attend the Sarabande literary series where the head of the Spalding MFA program, Kathleen Driskell, will be reading her poetry; then on to Friday for my first ever "fantasy" (or drinks with dildos) party.  The latter is a practice run event for a friend/rookie fantasy party host; just friends under no obligation to purchase.

On a completely other note, I read this the other night in Lit:

"In my life, I sometimes knew pleasure or excitement but rarely joy.  Now a wide sky-span of quiet holds us.  My head's actually gone quiet.  Some sluggishness is sloughed off.  I am upright all of a sudden, inside a self I find quasi-acceptable, even as I'm incarcerated.  Maybe this giant time-out has given me rest I sorely needed.  Basically, some fist pounding on the center of my chest has unclasped itself.  I've let go."  (p. 283)

At this point in the book, Karr has checked herself into a mental institution for suicidal ideation (she actually had the plan, the gear and had written the note).  Almost a year into recovery, she feels more miserable than ever.  Two weeks into her stay, she has the above epiphany.  In the margins I wrote, does it take incarcerating oneself in the loony bin to achieve this kind of peace? That inner pounding is background noise that I've always taken for granted, no matter how positively irritating.  It ratchets up with sleeplessness and hormonal fluctuations and cranky-ass children drawing and quartering me daily.  I'd love to know what it's like to just let go.  But, this is the point of the book where Karr peels away her spiritual cynicism and starts praying, the point where I felt betrayed.