The driveway is swept with orange and yellow and wet, the sky tiny ripples of gray clouds, thick and heavy. A mist of rain is everywhere. Walking outside I take a breath and fill my lungs with clean, cool air. The neighbor down the street has left his Christmas lights on and they are twinkling quietly in the still morning. I close the door against the warmth of the house, my husband making breakfast in the kitchen, my children filling up the house with the steps of their small feet, their PJ'd bodies curling into the comfort of the couch.
I'm waiting for a peppermint chocolate cake and a friend, and listening to Jeff Buckley sing "Remember when I moved in you/and the holy dove was moving too/and every breath we drew was hallelujah." A song so throbbing with sadness and beauty it's almost become a cliche, the way it demands you to feel something.
My heart's been heavy lately, something inside locked and stagnant. I recognize it, a murky, slow dark snarl of depression, and this time it's a little different. It feels untouchable and it grows and grows like some stupid cancer eating me from the inside out. There is a checklist of measures to take when it gets like this, things that let the light in, things that unsnarl the snarled, and I haven't even attempted them, and so it grows.
Why am I letting myself get stuck like that? I don't know. But today there are whispers of beautiful things, little reminders of the light you can pull within. It's a little pluck of pain and I can tug it free, I can. Starting now, with these words, with "And love is not a victory march/it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah," with the fall day folding around me, a perfect quiet blanket.