The Zing

I’m curious about the zing thing I feel.

Let me see if I can describe what I mean.

The zing is a rush of energy, an acceleration of clarity, that arrives in the present moment with a sharp snapping into place. It’s like parking a car at top speed, in such a way that it hits the exact centre of the space without screeching or jostling or disruption — just, “bam, we’re parked.”

It isn’t entirely unpleasant, but like parking a car at top speed, the zing is often accompanied by a sense that I “got away with one” or “shouldn’t expect to do it like that again.” There’s a hint of sheepishness and a belief that it’d be dangerous to try to recreate the pattern that led to the perfect outcome. It’s as if I’ve exposed something of my true nature, which is (by this kind of assessment) too reckless, cavalier, or unthinking.

I feel the zing build when I ask a question or make a comment that strikes at the heart of a situation. It’s almost always followed by a desire to backpedal, soften, or ease the shock of its presence. When this happens you might notice me explain why I’m asking (or saying what I’m saying), repeat myself in a way that jumbles up the previous clarity, or assure you, anxiously, that I’m curious about your answer rather holding a ready-made assumption. These responses clamour to ease my discomfort as the zings land and I attempt to occupy the space they’ve opened.

Let me clarify, briefly, that “the zing,” as I experience it, is not the one that you might hear someone who grew up in the 90s say. It’s not, “zing!” followed by mocking finger-guns and an arched eyebrow. It’s not intended to “zing you” but I guess, in needing to explain that, I must be worried about the possibility that you might experience it that way.

The zing is more of an electrical pulse, a current jolting my brain, coursing down my spine, and ripping open an opportunity for clarity.

As you can maybe tell, the zing can sometimes freak me out. It functions as a warning to parts of my internal system, suggesting that I might be close to an edge — to something that might be dangerous.

The danger, insofar as I understand, mirrors a sense of literal, physical danger. It’s the taste of blood in my mouth and loud silence in my ears after tripping on a root and catching myself from falling face-first into a boulder on a trail run. It’s the sense that my reaction, my instincts, have stopped me from something that could have been absolutely disastrous.

Yet, reframed, it’s also a sense of safety, pride, and confidence in the eerie, electric clarity of my response. It’s an awareness that I’ve responded in exactly the way that the situation called for.

I’m curious about the zing. I’d like to know more.

Noticing is a start.