One day slides into another, and I erase a number on my wipe away calendar. Soon a year has ended, and a new year begins. Midtown Cycles is now painted a lovely tan which was eventful to Darren and me, but some people walk into the shop and don't notice it is no longer blue. It seems a big enough building to us, but I think now that the whole painting event was just another nuance.
Darren and I went to visit his mom and dad at Sonata, yesterday. His mom seemed a bit more slowed down and his dad's deep, rumbly cough seemed slightly deeper. He still greeted Darren with expressions and tears that showed recognition of someone who cares for him, and he smiled at my kiss on his forehead. It was a similar visit, but something felt as if a home for the elderly makes those living there feel a little bit too old. Something slipped since our last visit of only a week ago it seems, if just slightly.
I heard on the news this morning, a quick blip, that said today is the "most depressing day of the year." I don't know why, but just typing that makes me smile. I don't mean to be unkind. I know people are looking at bills from the holidays, clearing out the Christmas mess, taking down the lights, and going back to work they may not care about or school they don't like. Maybe it's so depressing because it's January, cold and gray. Maybe it's because so many people worked so hard to make everything so perfect for awhile, and when the last bow is tossed in the trash or smashed into a box and placed in the closet, imperfection slipped in leaving room for a pause that moved into a longer pause that almost became a reflection which could have moved into a sigh or a prayer or a meditation, but that would be revealing, and it's time to get back on the treadmill. Oh, that is depressing.
I'm baking brownies to fill the room with chocolate, lighting my new lavender candle, and putting freshly chopped oak on the fire place. It's going to be cold in the shop tomorrow, so I better wash my black sweat shirt and remember to layer up. After all, tomorrow is another day. It's the first day after "the most depressing day of the year." It can only go up from there, so be happy. Things are looking up...after 12 midnight.
Peace. Love, Linda
Darren and I went to visit his mom and dad at Sonata, yesterday. His mom seemed a bit more slowed down and his dad's deep, rumbly cough seemed slightly deeper. He still greeted Darren with expressions and tears that showed recognition of someone who cares for him, and he smiled at my kiss on his forehead. It was a similar visit, but something felt as if a home for the elderly makes those living there feel a little bit too old. Something slipped since our last visit of only a week ago it seems, if just slightly.
I heard on the news this morning, a quick blip, that said today is the "most depressing day of the year." I don't know why, but just typing that makes me smile. I don't mean to be unkind. I know people are looking at bills from the holidays, clearing out the Christmas mess, taking down the lights, and going back to work they may not care about or school they don't like. Maybe it's so depressing because it's January, cold and gray. Maybe it's because so many people worked so hard to make everything so perfect for awhile, and when the last bow is tossed in the trash or smashed into a box and placed in the closet, imperfection slipped in leaving room for a pause that moved into a longer pause that almost became a reflection which could have moved into a sigh or a prayer or a meditation, but that would be revealing, and it's time to get back on the treadmill. Oh, that is depressing.
I'm baking brownies to fill the room with chocolate, lighting my new lavender candle, and putting freshly chopped oak on the fire place. It's going to be cold in the shop tomorrow, so I better wash my black sweat shirt and remember to layer up. After all, tomorrow is another day. It's the first day after "the most depressing day of the year." It can only go up from there, so be happy. Things are looking up...after 12 midnight.
Peace. Love, Linda
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