Indigo day
It's been coming on for a while. I cried when I read Terry Pratchett's Nation, I cried when I saw Susan Boyle singing "I dreamed a dream," and I've spent the last few days in a blue funk that has been getting bluer and bluer, until today. Today is saturated with blue, is cobalt, indigo. I know enough to know that tomorrow this will ease, that the rest of the month will be gentler, that I'll be mostly fine until the next 16th rolls around.
There are red leaves just beginning to burst from the buds on the maple tree outside my office window, I can see daffodils being all cheerful and flamboyant, and the sun is shining most appealingly. It's a beautiful day of the kind I've been longing for since January, and I can't wait until it's over.
I hope tomorrow is beautiful too. Tomorrow I will walk by those little maple trees and compliment them on their new leaves. I will flirt with the daffodils and smile at the sun on my face. I will fill bird feeders and set my sweet peas out to weather. Today, though, the feeders will hang empty, the maple trees will be snubbed, and the daffodils largely ignored. I've tried, but I cannot engage in the beauty of the day. I've tried, but I am elsewhere.
Eight months is a long time. Except when it isn't. And time travel seems to be something my brain is very good at - today all it takes is one little trigger and I'm right back there, where I was eight months ago, in that courtyard garden with sun on the back of my head, drowning in love and awe and disbelief and sorrow.
There are red leaves just beginning to burst from the buds on the maple tree outside my office window, I can see daffodils being all cheerful and flamboyant, and the sun is shining most appealingly. It's a beautiful day of the kind I've been longing for since January, and I can't wait until it's over.
I hope tomorrow is beautiful too. Tomorrow I will walk by those little maple trees and compliment them on their new leaves. I will flirt with the daffodils and smile at the sun on my face. I will fill bird feeders and set my sweet peas out to weather. Today, though, the feeders will hang empty, the maple trees will be snubbed, and the daffodils largely ignored. I've tried, but I cannot engage in the beauty of the day. I've tried, but I am elsewhere.
Eight months is a long time. Except when it isn't. And time travel seems to be something my brain is very good at - today all it takes is one little trigger and I'm right back there, where I was eight months ago, in that courtyard garden with sun on the back of my head, drowning in love and awe and disbelief and sorrow.