When it Rains

I must have seasonal affective disorder. After two solid days of rain, the stories that are running through my head are all about doom, gloom and hopelessness. What my head is telling me is that I'm going to hell in a handbasket, as we used to say in the midwest.

I know better than to believe the content of my stories. The "truth" is: there's always something to be worried about, always something to be joyful about, too. It's my mind's job to continually devise storylines as a way to explain my emotional situation. My cerebral cortex wants to make sense of my emotions. Silly cerebral cortex! Emotions are not rational! In a certain way I admire the storytelling aspect of being a human. Though futile (in terms of finding reasons for emotional fluctuations), it is so creative.

Because I meditate, I know that the stories are fleeting, ever changing to fit the mood of the moment. It's the framework beneath the story that's significant. A quick examination of the framework beneath my emotions reveals that it is, as you might imagine, completely soggy. No wonder, then, that my mental soundtrack is woeful, a sad tune played in a minor key. On days like this it's clear why I had such a hard time when I lived in the Pacific Northwest. Whoa.

Even in the midst of my emotional slog, (because I meditate) I can remember that this, too, shall pass. It's supposed to clear up tomorrow. A visual infusion of bright blue sky and some gold rays from Brother Sun should pop me out of this foul mood straightaway. I can't wait!


Part of a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote carved into the stone at Freedom Plaza. "Amid the swamps ..." Oh yeah.