Here's a confession: I feel boring. Not bored, mind you-- but boring. Not only boring, but low. Down low. Singing the blues low. Low and hollow at the same time.
I once wrote of this irony: the perfect and happy images that people send out into the world have unexpected effects. Many times, instead of inspiring people, it brings them down. We like to compare and this is a problem.
I'm not down because of my friend's good fortunes or happiness. I'm down because, well, it's difficult to explain. And I know you are not my counselors or mental health professionals.
One of my favorite people, Patch Adams, once said "mental health professionals would be out of work if everyone had at least one good friend." And I have many, many good friends.
But still it exists, this sense of boring that is close to pathos. It has been raining here for several days in a row. I know I need to go outside and embrace the damp. Take a long hike. Ride my bike. Plant some flowers.
So maybe I'll do that tomorrow. Today is passing into night. I've done the laundry, fixed a meal. I've called my family and even had two lovely conversations with Emily.
Perhaps this all comes from forgetting how much I have to be thankful for. I'm not sure.
Remember being a child on a Sunday afternoon, when everyone went to church and had a big meal? Then the adults would take long naps and everything was quiet? Sunday afternoons wore on like a peaceful eternity. It would have been nice except for that hollow feeling. The feeling you get when you are intensely homesick.
I'm familiar with meditative practices that teach how to empty ourselves in order to receive. I'm feeling this today.
In these small moments when things just take on a feeling of empty, I wonder if I'm being prepared for something. I should be thankful because boring is a quality that's better than "dangerous" or "evil" or "risky." I'm a slow train clacking through the open fields...wishing I was a plane.