Mud, mud, glorious mud. Thursday March 17, 2016
"There's nothing quite like it for cooling the blood..." goes the song. And I agree. My feet were ankle deep in the stuff, it was under my nails from picking up the skins from the half-time oranges and I had a Harry Potter style scar splatter across my forehead, where an annoyed boy had kicked up a dollop of it at the try line. (He was lovely, he apologised and I laughed.)
I've been wrestling with my low for some weeks. It's been better this Winter than any other Winter for a long time, but still it remains to be seen whether it will grind me to a pulp or ease its grip.
In an effort to battle back and loosen its surly grip, I made myself watch my son's rugby match. I didn't have to as it was within normal school hours. But I made myself go. Partly because I like to watch, partly because I like him to know I have him and partly because I knew being outside, with like-minded people would help. We huddled in the rain. We shivered in the cold. We squelched in the mud. I kept my distance but we were still together.
I came home and realised once again I had the magic thing. Perspective. It had brought me perspective. I was grateful for warmth, grateful for dinner only needing warmed up, grateful for my walls and my roof. For a short time, the thoughts, the whirring, the nagging, the sick feeling, the iron cloak, had all slid into the waiting room and I had had a rest from it.
There is still daylight as I type. I have a good feeling it's going to be okay.
The room above the garage
A Moodscope member.
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