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Notes from Below Sea Level
My Own Warp and Weft
A gentle rain has been falling for hours in a sort of somnolent patter—even the cats are a bit subdued and listless; I could scarcely decide what music I wanted to play, much less whether I had anything to report. This morning has been one of those mornings you look in the mirror and barely recognize the person in the reflection: the little hair I have left is sticking up and out and resembling some knockoff Dali pastiche, my eyes blood shot and rheumy from reading much too late and in low light, and my whiskers sleepily shadowing the bags under my eyes. But there is at least a knowing look that I can see from a distance (slightly squinting, with a soft backlighting) and the slightest of smiles I can only feel inside, all letting me know that in that moment it’s my choice. Will today be one of sorrow and regret or happiness and hopefulness. This morning—like most mornings—I chose the latter. This week has been driven by the train of constant work, punctuated by momentary whistles of joy and too-short station breaks (i.e., long days, not enough sleep, but I’m having fun).
This daily decision as to my general outlook isn’t always a matter of choice or inclination. Some days the bullshit is just too overwhelming in my own mind, or I just feel like being blue; no shame in that, I think. But like Sylvia Plath’s tale of the fat purple figs, I’m not one to sit “in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.” Sure, I’ve had those moments of contemplation and hesitation—lord knows—but now realize those long periods of darkness rarely led me to any real semblance of light. A part of my own therapeutic maturation has been forgiving myself for a life of poverty and emotional instability. Another part involves forgiving, or at least accepting, the failings of others around me. After all, children don’t dictate what economic class they are born into or the level of skills their parents might have; or even (dare I say) the mental instability that may appear in a family’s genetic history.
As an adult, though, I do get to decide (to a certain extent) how prominent each significant factor of my life is represented in this morning’s still life with Yorick’s skull. Bountiful fruit, including those precious purple figs, the bones of a dead jester backed with heavy satin curtains of muted golds and reds, the Rembrandt light forming deep shadows while highlighting today’s cornucopia of hopeful expectation. Like that tree in Plath’s story, the branches stretch out in infinite angles of possibility, each offering a taste of what it is to be alive. Some bitter, some sweet. Some simple sustenance for another day of choices and questions and stories woven.
(August 2024)
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Be well, be kind, and appreciate the love you have in your life.
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What's on your mind this morning?