I saw someone’s post earlier, it said, “You know seasonal depression is real when you get a random day of 50 degrees in March and it feels like you just popped a molly.” And what a day it was yesterday–the sun was out, birds chirping–it was some sort of hopeful glimpse into the future. Maybe it is to hope against hope–after all, I do live in Utah. The end of March starts looking really ripe, like spring is about to explode into every plant and person alike. Then the first of April slams the door shut with three or four sheets of snow, temperatures of 27 degrees, and a withering thought of how spring might have come early.
There’s a book sitting on my desk called, “The Essential Nietzsche.” It sits at a medium thickness, nothing too intimidating like the phonebook-sized Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. And yet, while its size isn’t of major concern, its content may be. Almost as if I know that opening the pages of the book will start a new journey so intriguing and beguiling that the energy required to intake such information is really the intimidating part. The difference between wanting something and actually doing something is so narrow, and so quickly can one become the other. Why is it so hard to open the front cover? Here I literally mean the front cover of the book, but just as easily the “front cover” could be construed as any outset into any activity. And yet, even if I were to pick the book up for 5 minutes, reading only the first couple pages, the idea that it could turn into more than that both excites and scares. Am I prepared for such an undertaking? Is anyone ever actually prepared, truly prepared, for the outsets of their lives? Probably not, but it’s the space between the amount we know and the amount we need to know that we grow and flourish–overcoming one challenge into the next just to thrive in this zone of experiential discrepancy.
Smells are so strange. At the store today, perusing the different candles they had available for purchase. There was Hawaiian Breeze, Clean Linens, Cedar, and then there was Apple Cinnamon and Vanilla. Last time I got Hawaiian Breeze, so that wasn’t an option–need to change things up every now and then, especially when it comes to scents. Clean Linens is nice, but a little boring for my bedroom–I like something a little more cozy. So I picked up the Apple Cinnamon and Vanilla candle, and suddenly I was transported back several years, to a completely different time. I’m there with a girl, her smile–fall leaves shuffling on the wind. She’s in my arms, just grinning. Her aroma–overtaking, but not in a way that makes me pull back–quite the opposite, I’m lost in it. Beautiful, pain-free, and simple in it’s remembrance. I’m in the aisle at the store. Okay. Apple Cinnamon and Vanilla going in the cart.
I guess I did take a lot of Ibuprophen and some Tylenol earlier… that would explain the unusual airy-ness in my lower back right now. Normally, today, it’s been flaring up, spiking randomly with strange spurts of pain. I used a massage gun and CBD-tingly lotion, and that helped, but only to a degree. Yoga, a light jog, stretching–all things that helped it ease off the gas, lessening the pain. Sometimes I feel weak for taking the Ibuprophen and Tylenol. I enjoy committing to a routine, I enjoy controlling things and having some semblance of an expectation for the next day. When I was a kid, I set out my clothes every night before I went to bed, excited to hop into my little striped shorts and shirt the next morning before school. Maybe taking those medications feels like a break from routine, a surrender to outside influence. Maybe it feels this way because I know taking those mediations isn’t sustainable, so what am I going to do when I can’t take them?
It becomes complete comedy if you read the above paragraph in the context of me explaining an “unusual airy-ness” as a fart instead of lower back pain.