Damn season

My short story that was webcast on 1001 Nights Cast earlier today can be read here: Half Men.

Suddenly I am struggling to get things done. During check-in at a volunteer meeting at OOTS on Sunday I mentioned that the weather had been getting to me recently—really getting to me. I have felt unmotivated, grumpy and lonely.

A friend came over afterwards and said he had felt the same. So it isn't just me. We are both subject to Seasonal Affective Disorder. No, no, no, I don't want this to be SAD; it takes away the vitality I need now. I said lifestyle changes have helped—last year went so much better than previous ones—but he said last year was a good year, so much fair weather lasting long into autumn. This year apparently isn't. I must anticipate a long hard October and November, my worst months, and they've started early. I must be rigorous about the things I can control: turning on the fluorescent fixture behind my monitor every morning, getting outdoors as much as possible, exercising. Hopefully my improved sleeping habits will help. The extraordinary energy and optimism I felt until a week ago is gone. I am off balance.

The calendar still helps. It doesn't feel as friendly. I'm not accomplishing everything I've planned. But it helps me stay present and focused. I'm accomplishing more than I would without.

I'm struggling to figure out how to write the novel. The words have become a quagmire. Maybe the keyboard approach won't work. I need the writing process established in morning pages over the years: pen skimming across the page, eluding the weight of thoughts. Can I entrust the novel to that process, letting it flow out of nowhere, somewhere, deep within? Not fussing over details? Mostly I need to stop thinking and keep writing.

This evening during my volunteer shift at OOTS I read the penultimate chapter of Heaven's Coast, by Mark Doty. It is all right to take time with this deep, beautifully written book. He describes Darren, the nurse who looks after Wally and ends up living with them during the final months:

Even now, writing this, I'm helped by thinking of his practicality, his wise focus on what-do-we-do-next. Whereas my tendency is to spin off into some airy interiority, to focus on grief and upon spirit, he brings me back to the plain facts of cleaning up, the daily work of making teings better, cleaner, brighter. We're sustained by the daily, held in the world, and because people who do the work Darren does are accustomed to being with the dying, they're used to staying in the present, seeing what there is to be done now.

Staying present is my motto, and yet so hard to stick to. It's what I need to face emotion, lack of emotion, depression, whatever comes, remaining buoyant on the sea of confusion to follow my stars wherever they lead.

Later, Mark quotes a letter from his friend Margie, who visited them a few days before Wally died:

January is sometimes a hard month for me, the month I was born in. Usually the complaint is that things don't move. This winter I have just given up, and it's much richer, much more enjoyable that way. Sitting in the bedroom with you and Wally felt like the heart of my January. Nothing moving fast, but everything moving. Time and room for my heart to really open there on the bed.

I've given up before, but that terrifies me. I don't know how to do it without admitting defeat and becoming helpless. I would prefer to follow Derek than Margie, stay somehow present with what needs to be done, without denying how I feel. This game isn't easy to play. If I can ever learn it, now would be a good time.