A clean well lit place*
It’s been a horrendous week for my brain (and actually a horrendous week for the country, so you know, bad all around). I sank in deep to the tides of sorrow, only they weren’t a gentle tug, they were a tsunami. Woke up Sunday drowning and have only really surfaced now and again until today.
It felt like I catapulted back into crisis mode. Responding to texts, emails felt like torture. (I just texted a friend I’ve been thinking about who is struggling and this knowledge made me tell her: This is not something you have to respond to. Just thinking of you. I’m here when you need me).
I don’t know that I’m out of the woods yet. But I do feel better. And on my drive to work I thought about what I wanted next. My brain can only come up with an image: a sunny, clean room in the afternoon, that golden light. And a sense of security. That’s all I want.
Doesn’t seem like much, but on Sunday there was an article in the Cape Cod Times about our housing crisis here: housing doesn’t exist, and where it does it’s priced out of most people’s range. And I had a crisis, which kicked off the blues. It means I can’t stay here. I didn’t really want to stay here long term anyway, but with all the chaos in my life I thought one more year. And maybe this is a blessing in disguise because it’ll get me free of here, it’ll force my hand. But there’s Baxter to consider: an old dog.
A sunshiney Saturday afternoon, dust moted light, a sense of being safe.
*a nod to one of the few Hemingway stories I’ve ever enjoyed, A Clean Well-Lighted Place:
‘…This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves.’