We Might As Well Dance

handmade greeting card, collage artAh, the bloom is definitely off the bipolar rose.  After two days of bone-melting exhaustion and brain-fog, there’s no doubt depression has rolled back in.  (I can hear Elton John belting out Circle of Life amid tribal drums—or maybe that’s just another of my nattering, negative voices caught in a brain crevasse).

Three weeks of stability is a fabulous run, no matter what comes next.  Three weeks is enough time to make change into habit.  So, I’m hoping all the tightwaddery I put into place this past month can withstand the storm.  My good friend, Nancy, has offered me a massage on Thursday.  And although I’ll be driving to Des Moines for that, I have no inclination to stay for a movie, a Starbucks, or any other indulgement that costs money.  That, alone, feels like a success.  Instead I get to meet up with my old meditation buddies for lunch and a sit.  Better than a venti mocha any day.

As always, it hurts to feel my clarity go.  Darker thoughts invade, fussiness, and a kind of chronic brooding that uses up my mental energy.  Thoughts twist and turn back on themselves.  I miss the simple directness, the grammar school progression from A to B to C.  Now the alphabet gets scrambled and stuck together with sludge.  It takes so much effort to get the wheels of my brain out of the mud.

But, this is the circle of my life—changing dance partners as the waltz ends and the fox trot begins, stumbling a little as I adjust my step, and getting whirled back out onto the dance floor.  Beyond my ballroom, the seasons turn as well.  Spring comes tomorrow, bringing the equinox and a moment of balance before spinning off in another direction.  Dancers, seasons, all circling round each other and themselves.  It’s all we have, this weird spiral, so we might as well dance.

Blog Stats

  • 184,305 hits
%d bloggers like this: