We are supposed to have another windstorm this evening. They unnerve me. I get weird enough in the winter without the weather; everything seems magnified and tragic this time of year. Whenever I feel the fear creeping up on me I know it is time to stop all worldly participation and take stock; meditate, watch the rain drip off the eves, curl up in a ball and let a short time out make me whole again and ready to return. Nothing soothes me as much as nature. When the war is too terrible, the deaths of the innocents too much to bear any longer, I retreat into nature and remember that the trees, the moss, the rain will all endure. I love the earth like my own mother and she always comforts me. No matter what we foolish and selfish humans do to her, she will endure. She is better than the savages she has spawned.
In this unusual state of mind (for me) I asked myself if this blog wasn't just a pathetic cry for attention (look at my art! you must!). And then a couple of lovely emails arrived from people who took comfort in words I said and I thought that maybe it doesn't matter if I am imperfect, weird, sometimes afraid, sometimes overbearing. That what matters is that sometimes my intentions help.
Winter is the time of the shadow for me. The wind howls, illusions appear and seem convincing enough, the spirit is tested. So forgive me this indulgence, or be glad that I finally let the mask slip for a moment. But just now, with the lights lit and the affluent children eager for new toys, I feel a little off, a little sad and in need of renewal. And it will come I know. It always does.