Every November Melancholy
As sunlight diminishes for the next 47 days, I hope you find the words, the moments with company, and enough light to hold you through the melancholy that comes, because, every November, melancholy comes.
Manuscript
As Edith and I read yesterday, I experienced several “did I write that?” moments. Part of it is didionesque: we’re constantly moving away from where and who we are and we lose touch. But a bigger part, for me anyway, is discovering that when I write, especially when I’m in the flow and writing from the heart, I never write alone. There is grace and magic there.
A Ghost and a Reminder
So, here’s that last tip about recognizing us, knowing when it’s really one of us. If the message feels like anger or fire, it’s not us. That’s you and your injured ego. If the message feels like a warm embrace or a sweet lullaby, chances are it’s one of us. And when you sense us, remember:
Shower Crayons
The brain seems to jam up a bit if you’re overly giddy or smug about the shower crayon hack. Then, there you stand, naked, holding a crayon, facing a big blank shower wall.
Stop Calling
—Please stop doing this. We talked about this before. So many times! I don’t want to lose everything we ever had because you can’t stop calling.
Not Me
—What do you mean, “This is not me”?
—I really don’t want to go.
—Then don’t.
—I have to.
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