A Storm Or A Great Song?
It’s been my daily routine. Pee at 2:09AM or 2:11, up for good at 5:28 or 5:30 or 5:35, start walking west, which conveniently is left, down this little road conforming to the shore on the southern end of Sebago Lake, Maine’s second-largest, where we have been with out of state family for a few days over the Labor Day weekend. Hot days, cool nights here, and some rough weather as well.
I mean the internal kind, origin unclear, raising holy hell.
I tried to walk it off. I could hear myself going along, counting blessings, saying the words, thinking them. Grateful I remembered at least. Thanks for this and that, no question. Morning mist off the water, cricket song, Yankees not gaining ground on the Red Sox, long weird shadows of squat fallen acorns because the sun is so low, the high white scar of a contrail through the cloud rubble, cool night air for sleeping, getting lost in a book, pale white ribs suggesting light to the east, dark silhouettes of trees and buildings slowly revealed, that same yellow dishtowel still on the clothesline down the road, the three beeps of the coffee maker, the tribal feeling engendered with that camp wave or nod you receive and give to strangers, chairs still around a fire pit, eager puppies being walked, family, health, nature, food, check, check, check, QED.
You have so much. There’s a should-ness, isn’t there. You oughtta be grateful and feel better. It didn’t automatically flip some switch and it also doesn’t really work to feel guilty because you’re counting blessings and still feel like shit. It’s like carrying around a turd in a knapsack.
It almost felt like someone was there, maybe that “brooding critic in the corner” to whom Admiral Byrd referred in Alone, the account of his 1934 solo in Antarctica that almost cost him his life because of carbon monoxide poisoning. That brooding critic (BC) is still alive and active and making the rounds and sitting on peoples’ shoulders. He gets around a lot.
He suggested words to me and comparisons, the thieves of contentment. You’ll never grab the brass ring, he chided, at 65 this is as good as you’re gonna be. He offered thoughts on how much I suck as father, son, brother, husband, writer. He noted that I probably drink too much wine and eat too many of those chocolate-covered almonds. He reminded me that my gratitude work wasn’t helping me much, was it, Mr.GratiDude.
I even tried to outrun him one afternoon and never quite succeeded. My BC said good luck with this, but you can’t shake me off. You’re a middle of the pack runner and I can keep up with the fastest marathoner.
Grateful as I profoundly have been here, I could never quite get rid of my uninvited companion. I could never quite get to the onehundred percent open heart I was seeking. On days like that, I sometimes ask “what’s gratitude supposed to do, anyway?” Not sure there’s an answer, it’s just a question. I don’t think it’s an opiate, the way Marx referred to religion. It’s not supposed to dull you to the reality in the world that needs to be dealt with. There can still be days when you need to take some steps that are routine and maybe close to slogging, but you keep going and hope that you’ve banked enough gratitude that you don’t sink too low and have some reserves.
Anyway, the big blow finally passed and the sun came out. I just waited it out, and it cleared up. I’m not sure what part gratitude played, wish I could give you a formula. I believe the practice matters, maybe like a time-release thing. I was left with the same question the poet Rilke asked– I still don’t know: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?
