It started sometime in the middle of the night:
a nagging sadness that felt like a scoop of vitality taken out of the center of my chest
a crankiness that made me want to pull the covers over my head and skip
the next twenty four hours of life, stay in bed and aim for distraction.
Farmer's Market to
here she is: the blue day in all her glory.
Isn't it kind of amazing how frequently these grey soul days come after great accomplishment?
We nearly stripped the entire bathroom of its awful maroon paint yesterday
in preparation for a warm deerskin color we'll apply in a week or so
and Friday night I had my first Ladies' Night in years, the first time since Los Angeles
that I've known enough local lady friends to sit around a comfy living room
and talk about everything under the sun...
and then under a full moon the mantle of dim descends
like a mini-hibernation for the soul
starkly beautiful and beneficial all the same as those peaks we know.
Just as I've made a mental picture of Munson, my grouchy inner critic,
I think I know what my Lady of Infinite Sorrows looks like:
she is lovely in drapes of grey fabric
carrying a wilted bouquet
in walking meditation
bearing the weight of the world's woes in an oversized wicker basket.
Her face is lined with compassion, her hair silver as snow.
I never realized before writing her description how much she means to me,
this part of the whole that brings pause and rest
to bustling days.
I never knew I felt tender towards that kind of quiet...
I think I will bake a pear cake today
work on finishing the pieces that need finishing
and take a long walk in the dim evening light
with my husband
and my babe.
I might even introduce the Gray Lady to a little Tom Jones on vinyl
and perhaps she will find it as delightful as I find her silent company...
I hope that when your patron saint of sadness
sends an invitation this season or any other
you allow yourself to let them in
and know the gifts they have to give:
they are many