Spring has arrived in North Carolina. I’m aware it’s only February. I know that we could still get some vicious cold snaps in the next month. I don’t care. Spring is here.
I was thinking I hadn’t felt all that depressed this winter. Then I realized that everyone else is also depressed so I’m only less depressed by comparison. It’s difficult to wallow in this temporary darkness when we are all engulfed in an existential muck. We are all Artax and we’re walking through the Swamp of Sadness. Even the most optimistic among us are Atreyu, at best — doomed to keep up that grim determination lest The Nothing descend upon us all.
Give a burned-out mother five minutes and a Google search bar and she’ll be told no fewer than a dozen times that she needs to practice some self-care. Self-care is seen as this magical cure-all for anxiety, stress, and all that bothers you in life. I’m pretty sure it cures athlete’s foot and eczema, too.
Y’all. I know it’s only November. I know this, but all that does is worry me more about what the next few months will be like.
Sometimes I feel like I’m on a roller coaster without a safety bar. I spent part of this week in complete freak-out mode because Rowan is going to be a year old, but he should only be ten months old, and all of the feelings I’ve avoided so well for the last few months have been threatening to send this car plunging. I’m keeping my hands and feet inside the ride and holding on tight.
Who the eff thought leap year was a good idea?
“You know Julius, we really need to get an extra day in every four years or so.”
Today is a day to get my hands in the dirt. To wear out underused muscles as I prepare the earth for the Spring that will come eventually. A day that begs to be spent outside, even when it rains. It’s not a day to worry about the weather tomorrow.