My traditional blog post didn't make it to the official yeah write moderated grid this week. The editor suggested that I take my last three lines and go from there, truly getting at the heart of what I'm feeling this spring: something not as depressing as Depression, but not carefree either. A bittersweet unease of the unknown. A changing season, changing weather, changing daylight resistance to too much change. Melancholy.
The thing is, I don't want to write about that. I don't want to write about how in that brief moment after I wake up, but before I remember what day it is, I'm blissful. I don't want to write about how it feels to lose that feeling to the day and its responsibilities. I don't want to write about the cool, sweet scent of spring and how that takes me back to springs past: dreams deferred, insecurities bubbling, and uncertainties looming. I don't even want to discuss the silver linings and rosy sunsets: plans falling into place, the reasons for which everything happens.
No, Monday’s post had to be about what I want for myself, for the future. I had to get it down, get it out, let it exist outside of my head, and look at it from several steps away. The day after I wrote it, the cold returned, followed by another dumping of snow. My mood stayed upbeat, and I experienced a small victory: the weather doesn't control my every swing. I can feel positive in the chill when I have loved ones to look forward to, recipes begging to be cooked and tasted, and immersive books drawing me in. I can even have fulfilling days at work, days that remind me why I used to--and sometimes still--love this job, and why I’m not ready to go at right this moment.Maybe I have a touch of the Fever, something a lot of us are experiencing right now. Maybe it has nothing to do with the feeling that I’m growing out of my job. Maybe I need a vacation, or a day off, or just a new pair of shoes. Maybe there is no explanation, except my insistence on over-analyzing every thought and feeling that filters through my brain.
Whatever this feeling is, I don't want to write about it. I just want to sit with it, like the clumpy snow that stuck to the tree branches on Wednesday. I want it to plop its wet self down, then melt away like it was never there at all.