Well hey, there. We haven't spoken since early November. That's because since November 8th, 2016, a date which will live in infamy, my inner monologue has sounded a little something like this:
It's not really conducive to blogging. Or to anything else requiring any concentration whatsoever.
In December I lost the ability to read books. Like, I still knew HOW to read, but books just weren't happening. I'm happy to say that went away after Christmas and I've since read and LOVED Alfred Lansing's Endurance, Ben H. Winters's Underground Airlines and Solomon Northup's Twelve Years a Slave (this assumes the word "loved" can be applied to engaging, well-written books with horrific subject matter, in which case it would be accurate to say I'm currently loving Jane Miller's Dark Money).
Interspersed with the above, I've also been re-reading all the Harry Potter books because my privilege allows me not to think about horrible things every single second of every single day and my suicidal ideation requires that I occasionally indulge that privilege. I'd forgotten how different the books are from the movies, which I also love, but Peeves really got the shaft, eh? Whither Peeves?
This week is really really hard for more than half of us, if the numbers are correct, and I don't really know how to cope beyond donating money to the ground troops in the war for peace and equality and decency and science-based everything. And reading about wizards.
I'm trying to avoid social media but I crave connection but I don't want to leave my house. I want to say everything will be okay but I don't believe that's true but I don't want to bum everybody out.
Here's what I know:
- The sun is out today for the first time in more than a week (of rain and gloom and damp) and I intend to enjoy it.
- Homemade soup is the bees knees.
- I can and will lose all the weight I put on over the holidays. So can you.
- I can feel all the bad feelings and still put more love and kindness out into the world. So can you.