It’s a sunny Sunday in February, and I’m doing something unusual: lying on my sofa, watching the thoughts pass through my mind.
Thinking is not the same as relaxing, and today it is not problem-solving either. Today’s thinking feels more like allowing space for life to settle, at least in my own head.
Living in the Midwest, the smart money is on planning a couple of escapes to better weather at this time of year, but we didn’t. November and December had been very busy with travel and family gatherings, and I was just pleased to get the Christmas cards out, the shopping done, and all the decorations up and down for both holidays.
I also admit to having had a lingering pessimism about what 2023 might look like in the COVID department.
Adopting the supine position, though, speaks to a certain weariness that has settled over me. It’s not a weather thing, because we haven’t had much to complain about this season. It’s the news that’s got me down, the global and local calamities that keep piling up like a train wreck, so much so that this admitted news hound has taken to skimming the papers and digital feeds that I would look forward to reading in the past.
My mother would recommend a good walk outside to clear the cobwebs out of my brain.
I exercise plenty though, so endorphins are not the issue.
The existential question I’m pondering is whether we or I or anyone has any control over various appalling events, or responses to them. My working conclusion is to practice detachment, but to venture back out into the world and join with others to do what we can.
Even Punxsutawney Phil pokes his head out in February to decide what he should do next, and if we have to take an example from a groundhog, so be it.
The sun shines down upon us.
It’s time to follow the light. ©
