June 27, 2002

When the Well Runs


When the Well Runs Dry

Dry. Blank. Blocked. Inert. I have lost the will to blog.

And writing about my early morning ennui or depression or whateveritis puts me squarely in the camp of those who parade their every nuance of emotion before the world on their weblogs. I will probably delete this, once it is complete. Caveats: it will never be complete because life will go on and the source of funk will persist no matter when I 'end' this word-emesis this morning; and digitally trashing this will not have nearly the degree of satisfaction I would get from ripping a printed paper page out of the back of a typewriter, wadding the waste and throwing it disgustedly at the corner trash can.

It's the heat. Seasonal Affective Disorder, but around the longest day of the year in late June. Happens every year, and I rather forget about it, until, like today, I awake and there it is, sitting heavily on my shoulders like a sack of sand. The mild depression today is anticipatory, knowing that heat will make me lethargic, lethargy will make me inactive, and inactivity will make me ineffectual and guilty. Fall will come, even hints of Fall in late August, and the sandbags will lift, but today I will feel their dull oppression, I can tell. Another cup of coffee is not going to help.

It's the drought. We are missing the water because the well is dry. Not literally, thank God. But the creek is so low that we cannot hear it's comforting babble at night with the windows open. Fields are brown as old haybales, and the garden barely responds to the hand-watering. Rain will fall in spots today, and if it comes I will lie in it, out on the walkway under the maple and let it infuse hope back into this dry sponge of a person.

It's the job thing. Once again, the call I was promised hasn't happened. I always have a 'Plan B'. I don't even have a 'Plan A' if this one falls through. I dread having to endure the corporate hokey-pokey if I get the job. I will be glad to be back in the saddle again as far as getting to know and care for patients, but don't look forward to breaking another health-care bronco.

It's knowing that today, I have to tell our son that his 'big sister' Lynn died while he was in Vermont last week. He came home last night with such excitement and zeal for his upcoming Americorp position in Burlington. He is so full of life now, and so inexperienced with death, and this is a bitter task that cannot be put off. Lynn was very special to him, and he will have to go through the phases of incomprehension, denial, anger, and grief to reach the zone of numbness where Ann and I reside now, after almost of week of dealing with it.

And as I am wallowing in this whiney-snivvley mire of self-pitiful verb-trash, Buster the dog comes up and rests his chin on my leg, like the hand of an old friend on my shoulder, wordless, comforting, reassuring.

Maybe another cup of coffee might not be such a bad idea, after all.

This world is not my home, I'm just a'passin' through
If heaven's not my home, then Lord, what will I do?


Posted by fred1st at June 27, 2002 06:53 AM
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