Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, triggers hope in my intellect that will hopefully migrate to my heart. It will. It always does...sometime in March. For now, I connect on a deeper level with mother bears who hibernate at this time of year: growling when bothered, wanting nothing more than to climb into my cave and hide from the world.
Until then my electric bill will skyrocket as I turn on every light in the house, including my "happy light" (one of those special lights that make the room glow like the inside of a tanning bed) in an effort to overcome Seasonal Affective Disorder--appropriately acronymed SAD. Is acronymed a word? Probably not.
I don't know whether to consider the holidays my salvation...or a twisted joke. My salvation because they force me out of my cave to interact, to be human, not bear. A twisted joke because that's the last thing I really want to do and I'm still naive enough to believe I don't have a choice.
Whether I actively engage or not, I'll flow through the next few days--maybe as a peaceful stream, maybe as white water clashing against those who innocently stand in my path. Either way, I know a basin awaits to collect me at the bottom and dispense me evenly throughout January and February, where I'll lie in wait for the clearly-sunnier days of March.
No comments:
Post a Comment