It’s a gray, overcast day, the sky as dingy as a wrung-out rag. I sail briskly through my morning chores, taking the dogs out, washing last night’s dishes, starting a load of laundry, and answering a half dozen questions from my online students before floundering in the early afternoon doldrums: that sluggish, sorry space where you’re unmotivated to do much of anything other than idly browsing online for spring sandals and sighing, unwilling to tackle your remaining tasks.
I know from long experience that you can’t fight the doldrums: the best you can do is walk yourself through them. I use the excuse of having to mail a birthday card and several belated Christmas packages to walk to the post office and back, taking an uphill detour and making a conscious effort to notice as much as I can along the way.
Along the ridge of trees by the trolley tracks, I see a red-tailed hawk soar through the shadows; in a planting on the edge of an unknown neighbor’s yard, I see a smattering of red berries. It’s a mild day—January thaw—and I see several emaciated snowmen, their figures whittled by wind or bent over backwards by gravity. Overhead, three geese silently fly by, followed later by a pair of mallards, their wings softly whistling. A man and a woman pass in the opposite direction, walking a leggy beagle who hasn’t grown into his paws; ahead, a woman pushes an infant in a stroller while her husband pushes a toddler on a tricycle.
I force myself to notice details, knowing such mindfulness to be medicinal: a balm for flagging spirits. The man pushing the toddler wears sneakers with orange soles, and the toddler counts each bump in the sidewalk: one, two, three. Two teens approach, walking home from school with backpacks and instrument cases: his the size of a clarinet, hers the size of a piccolo. Walking past the local Starbucks, I see patrons looking warm and satisfied over their steaming cups of caffeine, their faces aglow with the light of laptops. Inside a small bistro, tables for two are lined in rows, each adorned with a small lit candle: tete-a-tete, tete-a-tete, tete-a-tete.
Back at home, I browse through the handful of gray and grainy photos I shot along the way, and each feels like a hard-fought victory.
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:11 am
Such terrific, tender pictures – in words and in photos! It can be so hard to sustain energy at this dark time of year, can’t it?
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Jan 10, 2013 at 11:23 am
Yes! It’s been bright most mornings, but yesterday afternoon felt like the sun had never risen. It was like trying to motivate oneself to swim through sludge.
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Jan 10, 2013 at 2:02 pm
Lorianne,
This is awesome! It reminds me of a Flash Fiction course that I took in my undergrad. Its a story that is so detail and written so that the words go away and the reader can only see pictures. I was one of your students just in case you are wondering who I am
Laquanda Thomas, an inspiring writer.
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Jan 12, 2013 at 2:48 pm
Hi, Laquanda–thanks for stopping by and taking the time to comment. I’ve never written flash fiction, but it sounds like it would be fun to try. I hope the new year finds you well.
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Jan 12, 2013 at 8:08 pm
“unmotivated to do much of anything other than idly browsing online for spring sandals and sighing” – that is the most succinct description of winter doldrums that I have ever read. Today was warm enough to work in the garden, my personal antidote. Great post, thanks for sharing it.
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Jan 13, 2013 at 4:59 pm
I liked the poetic quality of your writing.
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Jan 17, 2013 at 9:44 am
Yes, the mindful thing helps me too. Somehow this winter low hasn’t been as bad now that I’m in the city, with more to see, or more changes, and different routes to take, maybe? I remember feeling miserable in January in Vemont, forcing myself to get out and walk, to find something, anything! worth noticing, and how each sight or photograph did feel just like the victory you describe. Great post.
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