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“The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.”
This poem by Carl Sandburg is how I feel now, except substitute “blues” for fog. This is not a full-out, twelve round, knockout bout. It feels like it’s creeping in, like I’m in a battle with my own brain and my own body for my own soul.
I had been doing so remarkably well, too, that when I have a misstep, I become discouraged. I suppose one of the lessons of the Blues (yes, with a capital B) is that nothing – not even feelings – are permanent.
Somehow that does not make me feel better.
My small sage tells me to be patient, relax, and let things run their course, that everything will work out just fine. It’s hard to believe that when you’re fighting the screaming blue meanies that seem to attack from every direction, leaving you tear-streaked and silent.
Honestly, writing helps.
But when that sense of tearing emotion seems to edge closer and closer, like some thick, wet, blue, velvet cloak trying to smother the life out of your heart…. it reminds me of women in gothic novels and B-movies, paralyzed at the approach of the charming vampiric villan, so desperately wanting to resist, but so powerless in his forthcoming embrace.
I sense a poem of my own coming on.