March 8, 2012


I dread March. It seems that no matter what I do the same listless solitary sludge washes over me and binds me to the floor. Is it weather? Is it season? Is it sunshine? Whatever the reason it doesn't care, it comes all the same like driving clicking clockwork. Suddenly I don't want to write, I don't want to talk– I just want to sit in the dark and wait.

I've lived this enough times to know that it will go away, and it has nothing to do with trips or parties or date nights or projects or any other excuses I scrounge up in attempt to keep the monster at bay. I can knit until my fingers bleed and rake my garden until my hands are shaking and drive states away and I'll be busy, but not better.

I cling to my mid-month birthday like a life raft in a spiraling storm. It won't hold me, it's not sturdy enough, but it's something solid to feel before it disintegrates. In the end the only thing that will help is time. By April I'm ready to pounce– 23 days from now. It feels like an unfathomable, interminable distance to cross.

Knowing that nothing I can actively do will lift my spirits this part of the year has become a period for quiet introspection. I'm finding it easier to acknowledge the unspoken challenge it raises in front of me–acceptance of what is inevitable; comfort in the patient silence that follows; peace; rebirth.

Haltingly I can stare out into the soft warm darkness of early dark and wait for the sun to emerge again without succumbing to the fear that it won't ever come back. I think maybe I can see the halo where the sun used to be, now that my eyes are adjusting, before my retinas burn up from the glow of fresh light.
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