Winter's over. Thank God.
To someone like me, now it's all about spring, all of the time. I hold to the very sound of the word. When I say it, I see a lighter me dancing on a sunny patio, string of red-chili lights twin-kling its rails, my closest friends with party dresses on.
And just as that image buds, every limb of me utterly in love with Seattle again, it occurs to me that there is still May & June to contend with, when the light broadens but the wind still jabs you in the back, a give and take that proves just how long time can take.
Over the last months, I've spent many a dark-by-5 evening lounging in sweat pants in front of the TV. Sweat pants that, if held up to the light, a clear view of my living room can be seen through the seat of them. The worst part: watching our president make a nightmare of things. All this as I down another bowl of buttered popcorn, a soft roll of flesh beginning to form pillow-like on my waist, enthusiasm locked in some kind of internal storage.
Searching the Internet for clarity on what a weather disorder feels like, as if I don't already know, I read that the winter blues are caused by varying degrees of light reaching the pineal gland deeply embedded in the skull. When stimulated, this pea-sized gland secretes melatonin, which affects moods and energy levels. For relief: Get outside for at least 20 minutes a day, sans sunscreen, to absorb the light and vitamin D. One site even lists the benefits of a high colonic, an extension of spring cleaning I hadn't thought of.
None of this information breaks new ground for me, but it's helpful to study the topic rather than react to it, even if excessive whining is the only remedy I choose in the end.
Meanwhile, my mother pooh-poohs my case of the blahs, employing her pet phrase, "This too shall pass." She's right, of course. As sunlight lengthens, I trust energy will spill again. And what follows is a ceremonial unplugging of the television and a massive housecleaning. Two annual attempts to bail winter over the side of me like sea from a skiff.
It's taken me years to admit that if I'm lucky enough to live in the luxury of rivers, rain, lakes and sea, gray skies come with the territory. I'm not affirming a platitude such as you can't have a rose without thorns, but as a reminder next time I ask myself the way I'd ask a Ouija board, "Whyyyyy do I live in the Northwest?"
I suppose, on some level, I've been afraid. Not of being able to accept the grayness, but that I don't want to, the image of a warmer/sunnier existence always in the back of my mind. Yet I don't want to start my life over somewhere unknown. The thought of it exhausts this middle-aged me. Instead, I want to want the life I've made and worked for. Even if I have to practice reacting favorably to the drizzle, as with any skill I've ever been good at.
So it looks as though I'm faced with a tough attitude adjustment.
This morning, I try to become the new me. Wanting to or no, I don't carp on the fact that sunlight doesn't wake me. Instead, I focus on the glorious moment, right around noon (or 2 or 3), when the light finally pokes through and I'm astounded by the lush pungency of Earth renewing itself.
Add to that a flock of starlings turning at the same moment in the sky, a sense of freedom I long to follow, which is more than enough desire for one day if I'm to get any work done whatsoever.
And with any luck, I figure the sharp edges between my predisposition and the reality of where I live will begin to soften at last.
Of course, failure is also a possibility. And likely. Whenever I confront a hard truth about my flawed self, I usually wind up discovering something new to revise instead.
That's when I think that it's a good thing I gave it a go or I might have overlooked the part of me most in need of fine tuning.
Sanelli will read from her book "Falling Awake, An American Woman Gets a Grip on the Whole Changing World One Essay at a Time," at Queen Anne Books on Thursday, April 26, at 6:30 p.m.
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