“And so winter was here once again in Maine, the short days. Darker and darker it got, and even if the sun shone - many days it did not - the sun still did not climb high in the sky, and there was sometimes a sense of compression for Bob Burgess, of being squeezed. It was cold when you woke up in the morning, even colder when you stepped outside. In these past fifteen years Bob had gotten used again to the Maine winters after moving back from New York City and marrying Margaret. But he felt his heart flicker at times with a kind of anxiety now, and he thought it was the aftereffect of the pandemic - which was not entirely over - and also the state of the world….When Bob thought about the state of the country these days, he sometimes had the image of a huge tractor trailer rumbling down the highway and the wheels, one by one, falling off.” ~ Elizabeth Strout, Tell Me Everything
Winter has never been kind to me. Oh, I love that first snowfall, the quiet beauty of flakes floating through the cold air, yet as weeks go on and patches of ice still present walking hazards, I grow weary of it all. The frigid temperatures. Dirty piles of snow along sides of roads and parking lots. Boots by the door. Lost gloves. The constant state of feeling cold.
I’ve always had a bit of seasonal affective disorder, a sadness that overwhelms me, especially in the first months of every year. But this January I am in the deepest well of SAD. The state of our country presses on my heart. I could list everything that has been dictated the past week and a half, but I was taught not to litter. Let’s just say the mad king has directed a slew of cruelty, lies, and force throughout the land.
I’m walking through a fog of gloom. Deep sadness. I’m heart heavy. It is grief, sorrow, a great funk. Feeling all of my 66 years. I’m weeping for all affected by this malice. Grants cut off. Civil servants fired. Cancer research suspended. Families rounded up. Funds on hold. Insurance coverage threatened. Innocents frightened. So much. Too much.
How do I navigate through the morass? I do not have any simple answers, yet I am aspiring to find small glimmers of joy in each day, moments that remind me the world isn’t always cluttered with debris. Prisms of light through a bathroom window. Tiny dogs barking as though they were Great Danes. The yeasty smell of baking bread. Walking around a book store. Photos of grandson sent from his proud parents. Brushing Mom’s hair. Being present for a friend who’s struggling. Cranking music as I clean our small home. Buying a beautiful new pillow for my reading chair. The trumpeting of geese as they take off from the neighborhood lakes. Reading a book that moves me to tears.
Books have always been my solace, my retreat, my home base. A great writer can make me feel less alone because their words are open invitations. One of my latest reads, Tell Me Everything by Elizabeth Strout, welcomed me back to the small community of Crosby, Maine, where I was able to spend time with Bob Burgess, Lucy Barton, and Olive Kitteridge. It is a gorgeous book that reminded me we all have a story. Everyone is a little broken. We’ve all made bad decisions. Most of us live unrecorded lives….yet we can and do touch others with our words and actions. Beautiful books can be gospel, and authors the pastors. (Or as a dear friend wrote, “Oh, she’s such a heart story teller, isn’t she? She’s my kind of priest.”) They fill our souls with stories that give insight into others lives which then help us live ours. Elizabeth Strout is one such author.
Are the blues still pushing on my chest? Yes, but seeking small moments of joy, reading good books, and telling myself to hang onto those flickers of hope are keeping me upright. I acknowledge the brokenness, some of which cannot be repaired. I look toward those in my life who own their flaws, wave them proudly, and show me how to be strong against gale winds. Like the line from that Johnny Cash song, “Get rhythm when you get the blues,” I will find my own rhythm, the rhythm of the everyday, Making coffee. Going to the grocery story. Making dinner. Turning my face towards the sun. Singing off key in the car. Looking for the light. Being the light.
A heart among ice. Adding to my collection.
“We want to know, I think, what it is to be another person, because somehow this helps us position our own self in the world. What are we without curiosity?” ~Elizabeth Strout