I’ve been having a bad time this last week, I don’t know why. It’s not because I learned that that spot on my shin that I thought might cancerous actually is cancer, though just the basal cell-kind.I guess that threw me a little: no more sitting in the sun lubed up with Coppertone or that ridiculous Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil.
It’s not because I twisted my back muscles like a person making a pretend dachshund out of a bunch of party balloons either. That came from paddling too hard in a canoe. It’s not even because avid and I worked so hard scrubbing and scouring things that we both still smelled like Pine-Sol even after two showers and a whole night’s sleep.
I think really it’s because for the last seven or eight days I haven’t been able to write with my customary joy; or in a way write at all. I mean, you see stuff here every day but every day I’m sweating bullets to get something written. I‘ve always felt that’s what Shakespeare was talking about in that one sonnet about the dead leaves. More than losing youth, or comeliness, or strength, it feels just awful when we open that drawer where we keep our special favorite thing we love to do and it’s Just. Not. There.
Yesterday I got to where back hurt too much to keep on scouring but I was too antsy to read and too anxious to nap. Finally I drove into this tourist town’s little center. I was crossing two parking lots to get from the pharmacy (SPF 40 sunscreen) to the hardware store (a fresh bucket for the Pine-Sol) when this little vista opened up. I shot 12 frames before I could get a shot that didn’t have cars zooming by between me and it but I did finally. Can you see the gentle rise of the Appalachians in the distance? It calms me to look at them. I guess I need to remind myself to stop sometimes and try taking the long view.