The change of season. The holidays. My recent bout with swine flu.
I'm an American, and a problem-solver and was raised in the Protestant tradition. So I've been thrashing about trying to put my finger on what has caused this recent fog of sadness to settle in like a low pressure weather system.
While the cause is elusive, the evidence is unmistakeable. This apartment has been full of thirteen-hour sleeping binges, rumpled pajama pants, dirty hair and spider solitare on the computer. Writing? Not so much.
I've been dealing with this my whole life, so I know some reliable antidotes. Yoga. Long walks outside. Reading books, watching movies. Homemade soup and a glass or two of wine.
And there's this part of me that stays outside of myself, exasperated. "You just watched Sophie's Choice for God's sake! How could you possibly be so whiny about your life after that?!" Or: "Why can't you be one of those people who throws herself into her work? You could have written a whole book by now!"
Trying to be patient. Trying to be gentle. It's harder than it looks.
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Its much harder than it looks AJ; being one who has also struggled with this, may I advise from experience? Be kind to yourself, and while the temptation to turn inwards is strong, keep connected to the outside - even if it feels like you're just going through the motions. Find some routines to stick to, its surprising how grounding it can be.
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