Ups and downs

Yesterday: 75 degrees, the sky a cloudless, cerulean blue. Dressed in ancient overalls and a tank top, slathered with sunblock, I shoveled dirt into the raised beds in the garden. And I thought: Life is great.

 Today: 45 degrees, the sky flannel gray, fog hanging low in the firs, mist turning to rain. Wearing a sweater, standing here at the computer. And I think: Life is great.

 It’s not the weather that buoys–or dampens--my spirits. Nor am I so even-keeled, so blissfully happy-go-lucky, that I am always declaring Life is Great.

 In fact, two days ago I was in a funk, the weight of a chapter I was writing felt like more than I could bear. It was a weight that I could actually feel—the top of my head, my eyelids, my shoulders—and it affected everything. It affected my energy level, my sleep, my dreams, my mood, and my self-talk (oh, man, can I be cruel). It also affected what I thought other people were thinking. What a sink hole that was. This is not a place I go very often. But once there, it is so easy to look through what the opposite of “rose-colored glasses” would be, to see storms when the seas are calm, to envision a steep rocky trail when the path is soft loamy dirt and forest duff, to create drama where there is none.

 And then, boom. I work my way through that chapter, feeling all the feels, as they say (not sure who they are), my shoulders relax. I walk in the woods and find clusters of purple trilliums. It’s that feeling you get when you’ve been ill and then you are healthy again. You don’t just feel “back to normal,” you feel super-charged, full of life.

 Boy howdy.