Burnout Imminent

I left work yesterday in a deep depression. I hated my conservative heels, I hated the low, weepy clouds, I despised the slick-haired businessmen in their BMWs who passed my little white Honda without using their turn signals. I ran into a road construction-induced traffic jam and, after hating those damn orange and white cones and the grubby dudes collecting them for a minute or two, darted down a side street to escape it, and things were suddenly quiet. I sat at the stop sign and listened to mockingbirds singing and trees dripping and Nature whispering to me, and I sniffled morosely for just a little bit.

After tossing my purse down when I arrived home, I fell into bed. When I woke up an hour later, I immediately cut out a self-made pattern for a lined, batted, pieced lunch tote, which came out well but not as well as I would have liked. I learned. It thoroughly distracted me for about four hours, and when Caspian came home from rehearsal at around 10:30pm, I let him hug me, brewed some iced green tea, made my lunch and went to bed. I cried myself to sleep against Caspian's back.

RH sent me a poem.

Green Shade
by Henri Cole

[Nara Deer Park]
With my head on his spotted back
and his head on the grass—a little bored
with the quiet motion of life
and a cluster of mosquitoes making
hot black dunes in the air—we slept
with the smell of his fur engulfing us.
It was as if my dominant functions were gazing
and dreaming in a field of semiwild deer.
It was as if I could dream what I wanted,
and what I wanted was to long for nothing—
no facts, no reasons—never to say again,
"I want to be like him," and to lie instead
in the hollow deep grass—without esteem or riches—
gazing into the big, lacquer black eyes of a deer.