A Spot of Coppery Sunshine in a Gray Sky

It was a hard morning—one where the amphetamine doesn’t work and suicidal thoughts fill my empty cup.  I tried arting at the Starbucks in Tulsa, but couldn’t summon any interest, so started home sooner than expected.

As I drove I remembered that I’d dreamt about Barack and Michelle Obama two nights in a row.  In the dreams, I was happy,  hopeful, and part of a positive flow.  I thought, “Okay, this is where I need to take my brain today.”

As the negative images resurfaced, I summoned President Obama’s cheerful face, talking to me like a friend.  I felt the lightness of my dream-heart and the sense of rightness.

This spot of brightness in my gray morning reminded me of a project I’m working on—making sets of tiny Penny Positives like the ones I make each year for my friend Sarah.  I found tiny plastic sleeves to keep them protected and little paper mâché boxes that a set of 50 will fit into.  I planned to label the boxes “Penny Positives: A Spot of Coppery Sunshine for a Gray Sky.”

I also remembered that I’d sent both President Obama and President Carter Gratitude Postcards last week, telling them how much hope they add to my life.  I’m thinking I will spend time this afternoon making a new Gratitude List.  Maybe more people on that list will seep into my dreams, which might give my brain additional hopeful rest stops.

I’m better now—tired and slow-witted, but that part of depression isn’t nearly as frightening or dangerous as the Black Thoughts.  There’s a sense of being more skilled than my Black Thoughts let me believe, and there’s gratitude for that.

This Bipolar Highway is never-ending and ever-changing.  It seems like I’m being called to build more Comfort Stations now.  And the more I can build, the longer the Adventure continues.

Inspired Upon Waking

It was a small venue—an old church, maybe.  Judi Dench sat on an old piano bench against the right wall, looking worried and undecided.  We all sat quietly, but the people around me held thin plastic squares high in the air—no bigger than a matchbook with rounded corners, so I knew it was an Apple product.  Tiny recorders.

“Yes,” Dame Dench finally said in her raspy voice, “I will sing, but absolutely no recording.  Please.”

No one put down their tiny squares, and I felt anger tumble over my need.

“Put them down,” I said, trying for loud and reasonable, but ending up with shaky.  “It’s Judi’s voice, not yours.  It belongs to her.”

More hands lifted in the semi-darkness.

They’re spoiling it, I thought, desperate.  She’ll leave.

Her eyes found mine in the crowd.  “Oh, all right, then.”

She turned to the piano, away from her audience, but did not play it.  She started to sing a Loreena McKennett song acapella, her Shakespearian-raw voice scratching the notes.  She was not a singer, yet she sang.  At 83, she sang.  Recorders be damned.

Blog Stats

  • 161,570 hits
%d bloggers like this: