Anyone who knows me already knows that. I'm not sure whether it's the angle of the sunlight, the shortness of the the days, the cold, the bleak colorlessness of the landscape here on the prairie or what. (Maybe it's all that hot tea that I keep beside my elbow day after day. ) All I know is: something is different, I am a smidgeon off bubble and it leaves me feeling as if my essence is dulled to a dirty gray and is slowly settling to the bottom of the bowl. I can drag myself out of that funk, on occaision and bravely stride into the days, caring for my children and theirs, but my energy is low and they can tell. I am tempted, but not called, to walk out into nature itself. I stand and gaze for a minutes and then turn and go back inside. (What blasphemey!)
So....I'm hitching up the team and heading west. Isn't what the pioneers did when they became restless and frustrated? I'm going to sit in the desert and look up at the stars. I am going to stand beside the ocean and soak up its power and purpose. Perhaps I can find my way to a forest somewhere and breathe in that oxygen rich air. I am going to fall into the arms of dear friends and share remembrances and confidences. We will talk and laugh and sing. These friends know my spirit and will bring me back to wakefulness and fill me with love and joy. I'm counting of it. Surely that will be good medicine for me, and for them as well.
When I return, the days will smell of Spring and I will go out and dig the gardens, turning the winter weeds under the soil. I will roll up my sleeves and get to work. The first yellow butterflies will appear, too soon, and will succomb to the late frost, and the peach tree will blossom, pink and perfect as a newborn babe. Then I will realize, as I do every year, that it was the winter doldrums that had me by the ankles . ( Why I don't just buy a bank of broad-spectrum lights and read in their glow, is beyond me....it's probably the fact that I only think of it in the wintertime and by then I'm too depressed to do anything about it. Vicious circle indeed.)
What a cheery post. I'm not really as flat as this thing is sounding, I assure you. No one need call the suicide hotline people. I was simple casting my mind back through several weeks of days and noticed a palor hanging over them. I haven't even been over to visit my dear old dad for heaven's sake. That's ridiculous. He is good medicine himself; just being in the same room with him will make most of your aches and ills subside. Tomorrow, I'll go tomorrow. For now, I will make my way to bed and try to dream sweet dreams and see if I can remember them tomorrow morning.
Oh! A beautiful memory floated into my memory right then: It was when our oldest grandson, Brendan, was small, two or three years young. He and his parents were visiting the farm and he was in his pjs, making the circle past all the adults, giving and receiving hugs. He came to Danny, his grandfather, and Danny placed his thick, scarred farmers hands on both sides of B's soft, innocent face and said to him, very softly,
" Goodnight, sweet Prince" and kissed him on the forehead. It made me cry then and it makes me cry now. I miss him. I miss those hands and those eyes of blue. I'm off to bed. Love you guys.