Mystery and Massage

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“The part of my brain that was responsible for creating the world I lived and moved in and for taking the raw data that came in through my senses and fashioning it into a meaningful universe: that part of my brain was down, and out. And yet despite all of this, I had been alive, and aware, truly aware, in a universe characterized above all by love, consciousness, and reality. There was, for me, simply no arguing this fact. I knew it so completely that I ached.”  ~  Eben Alexander

The opening photo today has been doctored considerably; the morning playtime for me. Of course, it suggests a light at the end of a tunnel, an age old image that can mean almost anything. I had a near death experience 33 years ago, so I sometimes write about it here, and I previously wrote a whole book about it, which I just can’t bring myself to tout. It wasn’t about making money. The truth is that few people can make much money at writing these days. Still, look. The amount of books on the market boggle my mind. I don’t know about you. In looking at the numbers of books in print I can only surmise that people write because they want to. Or because they have to. That last one leads into the issue of creative drive. I know that feeling quite well. The need to express feelings and stuff. I have no direction in this post. In fact I really had to push myself to begin writing this morning. One drive that I have is to keep my writing sharp and practiced. That’s a hard one to explain, and I have no intention of any explanation anyway, so let’s just ramble here. There is one thing of note lately. A young woman that I recently met said an odd thing to me a few days ago. I don’t remember what precipitated her comment but I do remember that it seemed slightly out of context, which led me to believe that someone had told her that I struggle with depression, and that there was an undercurrent in the telling that laid a bit of judgement on me. There have been many times in my life that folks have aired a tone of disbelief as to the seriousness of depression. Like, ya know, how would they know? Geez, my writing here is way clunky. I’m gonna step out for some air. Bisy. Gon out. Bisy backson.

It’s pretty nice outside this morning. Dawn is well on the way. Yet the oppressive heat of the coming day is a considerable factor in . . . what am I talking about? Whatever. Anyway, what the young woman said is “We make ourselves depressed”. I simply told her that some people have clinical depression and they can’t help it. Which is true. I think it was Barbara Kingsolver who wrote that comparing situational depression to clinical depression is like comparing the common cold to cancer. I agree. What I would like to tell this young woman is that she would do well to learn the difference in case she needs to avoid hurting someone down the line, in the name of helping them. I will likely do no such thing. I know how I am, if someone tells me to cheer up, and that we create our own reality, when I am in the thick of a depressive spell, I generally want to tell them to fuck off. But you can’t do that. They have no way of knowing, and in no way do I wish this on anyone. But it ain’t so bad this morning, although it has been in recent days. Sure, it always passes, and I am in no mood to get all flowery and stuff with my prose this morning, so on we go. I think I will leave it at that. Tomorrow is massage day and I seriously need it. It’s been three weeks since the last one and danged if I know how I made it these past many years without massages. Some things are just a mystery, I suppose. And I do so appreciate a good mystery. And a good massage.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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