Late posting this week -- I tripped over something that sent me into a puddle of tears and not wanting to do anything much more than lie on the bed hugging a pillow. Not sure what went into the triggering mix (fatigue, someone's cancer, a throwaway remark that hurt, a hip/knee combo that's interfering with fitness routine, another throwaway remark, fatigue -- again, yes, those sleep-disturbed nights!,an overly critical assessment of some creative attempt or other, being too far from my women friends), but it took me down for a couple of days.
I posted this. . .
Instead, I will only say that it felt a less vulnerable way of reaching out (left me more in control, somehow, and whether illusion or not, I felt less revealed in my neediness) than calling friends or family. I realize there are gradations of sadness and depression and then despair, and that at a certain point more immediate, physical connection would be appropriate, but I had a watchful, concerned husband at hand, and the flickering of that impulse, some emotional energy finally, signalled a possible route out of the deep well.
Had a whole other nattering-on paragraph here, which I've just deleted.
Let me tell you instead that I took these photographs while out for a walk on the weekend -- and then I wasn't sure why, wasn't sure who I wanted to show them to, wasn't sure the Instagram accounts of the world don't already offer enough photographs of beauty. If I'd been more organized, I might have already deleted them.
Kristin commented on this post, that the flip side of the sensitivity that can lower our moods so drastically is often what "brings us to the edge of artistry, to the edge of compassion, down a path of extreme self-awareness."
This morning, these photos remind me that I might be someone who gets felled, occasionally, by a biochemical quirk, but I'm also someone who can scarcely walk down the block without seeing something moving or beautiful that I want to share. Tradeoffs, right?
But first, let me tell you that the theme here, in these photos of magnolias and roses, is that stage after blooming. I mean, don't get me wrong; I love the blossoms. But aren't those rose hips stunning? And the shapes and colours and textures of the blossoms as they age and decay? (You know Bobbie Burgers' amazing paintings? -- magnificently oversized, brilliant, sensual meditations on the latter stages of a bloom.) And the creamy, waxen sculpture of a magnolia bloom is undeniably wonderful -- but so is the tanned-leather of the flower as it ages and dries out while preparing for the amazing surprise of its transformation into that shaving-brush of a seedhead. . .