I’ve been dipping back into depression and in there I find that I most deeply miss writing, miss the creative conversation I have with myself, the one that reminds me – without waiting for anyone else to say something – that I’ve checked out a bit, and gently supports my arm whilst I get a grip.
It’s been too many years since I practiced – I could still blame this on people and jobs and the rigged world, which asks other priorities of me. That’s a dug in lie, that’s a shallow well, that’s a shunning – there are reasons, yes and the world and the jobs and the people of interest are a part of it. But abdication of responsibility for taking care of this part of self – is slacking. plain, simple, serious infarction.
I’ve done so little today / but taken great joy in it:
2 naps, curled with the cat’s chin in the cup of my palm/dozing openended
plumed the crocosmia plant into a pompadour / raked one pile of leaves
halfassedly turned the compost / fed myself twice
felt sadness and for once didn’t investigate it.
Fires across the northern woods, all day the light here is tinged in pink.
The heat didn’t reach through the haze / such corrupt gratitude
to be glad of the respite even as the larger world is burning.