A Hole in the Clouds

Out the window, the clouds move away after spilling the gentlest of rain on us. In the clouds, blue-purple and grey, the slightest glimpse of light spills through. This is my mood, perfectly. My life has been grey lately, neither full of exuberant life nor beset by torrents. One day follows another and I do the same thing day after day, more or less. This is not a bad thing.

I worry more about the exuberant than the torrential. I weather storms well and have done all my life. Bright sunshine has its own violence, smashing calm just as much as lightning does. Great happiness tempts its opposite more than great depression does.

I want a little light peeking through my clouds, a bubble of joy, not the torrent that tells me that life is out of control. Because the latter is mania, and it scares me more than depression.

Here’s for a calm day.

In Defense of Ugly Days

Can I compare thee to a summer’s day?

This day does not belong in a love sonnet. The skies are a mid slate-grey; the air is so humid it feels like I could wring a cup of water out of it; and I am underwhelmed by a scenery dominated by weeds.

Today is not a beautiful day by any measure of “beautiful” unless there is something in it to attract hydrologists. But I find something about it appealing.

This day is my inner child

Somewhere at home I have a stuffed toy whose fur sticks up in every direction and has a googly eyed smile. (See below) This is how I envision my inner child, so homely it’s delightful, ingratiating, happy.

Today is like my inner child. Nobody would seek it out or list it among their best days of summer. Yet I sat on the porch swing earlier, feeling attuned to the endless clouds and the slight breeze. Smudged nose, scraped knees, unkempt day. My inner child mirrored in the day.

Learn to love the imperfect

I am reminded to love the imperfect. The gloomy summer’s day, the homely stuffed toy, the scruffy child. They have their own appeal.

Looking at the Clouds (when there’s nothing else I can do)

I am still on pain medications because I’m still in pain. I cannot be trusted to operate machinery — cars, forklifts, and maybe even this computer. Is typing under the influence a misdemeanor or a felony?

I would like to do magnificent things today with writing — continue revising Reclaiming the Balance (fantasy romance with a female and non-binary main character), contemplate what I should send out for querying, play with the short stories that have been sitting in a metaphorical drawer. But my thought processes look like this today:

Today, I would like … this music is putting me to sleep … oh, look, that song is called Northern Town … I haven’t heard “Life in a Northern Town” in ages. Let’s play it … what was I doing again? I was typing … Why was I typing? Oh, my blog? I don’t know if I want to write this blog today … Let’s listen to some Bread …

It’s like the world is too big and I want it to be tiny right now, a blanket fort with warm milk and familiar music. Writing is part of that big world outside that I feel ill-equipped to deal with. This is not me, not really. If I have any free time, I want to write.

Right now I just want to curl up under my blanket and follow my thoughts into the clouds.