In Praise of Sweat and Cellars and Songs

Do you ever have those days when your skin doesn’t fit right and your socks keep falling down and your shirt keeps coming untucked? For the female side of the species, I think this feeling is always exacerbated by bra straps that keep slipping and the sickening realization that we are creatures of the moon, our tides and moods flowing with the days of the month. Today I waded through a deeply spiritual state of crankiness, and even as I named the torrents of irrationality and recognized the source of this passing madness, I felt powerless to stop the waves of frustration.

While so many whom I love are caught in true suffering, I found myself floundering in this tempest in a teapot. For all that I have prided myself on being available to those who need me in this dark time of the year, I found that ability completely sidelined as I tripped over my own feet. Of course, beating myself up for this temporary paralysis is less than effective, and I guess I should know better than to further feed this sinking feeling.

So, I kiss this self pity goodbye and offer a quick thanks to a few elementary things that kicked me out of my funk. iPod balanced on the seat of a motor-less motorcyle, I surveyed the chaos that is our new basement from the sweaty seat of an exercise bike that is older than I am. The cats played on an old wooden wardrobe that had been my closet in the days when all of our living took place in two rooms and the voices of Christine Kane and David Gray were the first sounds that did not irritate me all day long.

There’s nothing all that remarkable about this epiphany – that songs and sweat and feline antics and a change of scenery can lift a mood. The remarkable thing would be to awake tomorrow morning refreshed, unburdened by guilt for a wasted day and realize that I can resume my late autumn calling of being a sweet, peaceful shelter in the storm to anyone who needs me.

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