Often, I get a case of the Sunday night blues. It kind of comes on early in the evening, before dinner, but after any Sunday outings. There is a space to transition from the weekend back to the work week that requires a mental shift and when I feel that my weekend has not been long enough or productive enough, or was so delightful I don’t want it to end, the blues creep in. It mostly slows me down, makes me a little petulant, so I might procrastinate about making my lunch for Monday, or folding that last bit of laundry, or acknowledge that time is moving forward and I am powerless to stop it, except for stewing in the blues. Blues are always slow. Funny how that happens… that suffering, no matter how insipid, moves like a sloth. Tonight is Monday. And I have a touch of the blues.
I only did a three mile run tonight, but added in some step-ups at one of the benches along the path, ran flat out for speed for about 800 yards and ran up the last hill which is about 2/10ths of a mile. Tonight I focused on it being about 1000% harder to run in the dark, but I think that was mostly because my early-onset PMS drained all my patience, and with it all my energy to pace myself. I got home, watched the Broncos flameout in the 4th quarter while doing some crunches, and ate most of a carmel and Oreo dipped apple for dinner, a known blues cure.
Many many thoughts were swirling tonight and I have been taking lots of notes about ideas or images as they pop into my head so I can write about them during the month. But for whatever reason, I have been petulant, and wandering around, and shedding a few tears, and not getting any of these good ideas fleshed out enough to post tonight. Is this what it is like if you are a real writer? Or is this the pressure I am putting on myself, and the writing, much like the run was in the dark.
The lesson of patience, which I am realizing is so deeply connected to faith, is skulking around waiting to be noticed.
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