I drove to the beach to try to shake you, but it didn’t work. So I stood by my car for a while as the fog rolled in, and I watched the sky change colors. I inhaled the cold salt air and was willingly blinded by the setting sun that eventually ducked behind the island 20 miles offshore, providing some rest for my retinas. Catalina was backlit, and rays of fading light streamed over the top of it. It looked heavenly, and I realized its beauty – but when I tried to draw from it, I came up empty.
I stopped at Starbucks afterwards, thinking that some forced interaction with at least a couple of people would jump start something, but that was no use. They were friendly, I was pleasant, my Americano was spot-on and a stranger held the door for me on my way out.
“Some of us still have it,” said the gentleman. I told him I appreciated the gesture, and I did. But if my soul had the ability to smile, you wouldn’t have seen one. Still, I mustered one on the outside and waved goodbye. Empty again.
I love overcast days and gray evenings, but this one was wearing on me – maybe because it’s been one in a long line of many. They’ve been plentiful since the start of the year, and what began as an optimistic outlook on 2013 has turned into a journey where my feet feel like they’re wading through mud. Something feels messy; my progress and momentum feel hindered.
I awoke this morning after another fitful night of sleep, and it was pitch black outside. Mondays are my earlier-than-usual days at work, since I have a meeting right off the bat. By 6am, the light was beginning to reveal a semi-clear sky, something that hasn’t been the case very often these days. Normally, I’d mourn the loss of inclement weather, but today I felt otherwise. The skies told me of something that I’ve known to always be true – something that was true of the funk that clearly has a grasp on me – and I was thankful for their message:
This, too, shall pass.