I’ve been sinking, feeling down about everything but nothing, really. I wake, heave myself from the bed and open the blinds to let the sunlight in.
What I saw were fluffy, white snowflakes dancing from a darkened sky against the nakedness of trees. It was still snowing, just as the winter storm forecast predicted. I stand there, transfixed by the flakes flailing about in midair.
It looks peaceful, cozy, enchanting and equivalently unmotivating.
I put on my robe. The over-sized blue fleece that wraps me like a soft warm blanket.
I go downstairs, undress myself and climb into the hot tub. My body has been aching for days. A common symptom I experience when I’m in a spell of depression. My mid back, searing down my legs to my feet, throbbing in a pulsating rhythm.
I walk. It doesn’t go away. I stretch. It doesn’t go away. I take pain reliever. I take my prescribed psych meds. It’s a storm that never calms.
My body melts submerged in the 104 degree water. My skin feeling bruised to the touch now dissipates but it’s a freedom that doesn’t last long after I’m out and dressed again.
I make a fresh pot of coffee, pour a cup and head back to bed.
It’s snowing after all, there’s nowhere to go or reason to leave, so why not? I can lay safe in my bed and venture off on a journey within the pages of a book.
A Moveable Feast, written by Ernest Hemingway . Since I began reading it I have devoured each word on every page.
When I come across the chapter, A False Spring I break down into tears as I read the first paragraph.
“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.”
I ask myself, How is it that in 1957 Ernest Hemingway could have described exactly what I feel right now in 2018, 61 years later?
How is it possible?
It would seem not but yet here I am completely connected to those words in this moment, as if he could see through my eyes and detail my whole of emotions. Somehow he knew I feel happiest withdrawn with the exception of those loved enough to be let in.
Perhaps it’s not how he intended it but instead how I perceive it. Regardless, it was a connection deep in my soul, sparking a desperate awakening.
I most likely need a good cry for no reason other than a release and I’ve finally got one. My body feels a bit better.
It’s remarkable how we can connect through words. Those of us who choose to write about an experience, time, place or emotion in our weakest moments only to create something powerful simply with the use of our words.
I wonder if anyone has ever felt connected to me when they read my writing. If there is ever anyone reading my words and feeling the same as I have or if my words in someway touch their soul. I would imagine so, or at least I would hope.
These thoughts intensify the flow of my tears. I wipe them from beneath my eyes and turn to the next page.