Imbolc Waning Wild Moon
I know this will continue a down refrain from the last couple of weeks, but I want to talk about it anyhow.
One of the more problematic parts of getting older lies in the corrosive nature of normal problems. That is, today and this last week I have felt slightly sick, unwell but not moving outright into a cold or the flu. This may be, probably is, a hangover from the vertigo of two Mondays ago, but I find it hard not to ascribe it to generally decreased vigor.
When I went to the capitol on Tuesday, I was there from noon until 4:00 pm or so. By the time I got home I felt completely worn out. Yesterday at the continuing education at the Art Institute the thought of waiting from 4 p.m. until 6:30 p.m. to do a walk through of the Asmat exhibit found me on the way home.
A certain shuffle in the walk necessarily accompanies vertigo, since rapid movements often tripped the spinning/nausea cycle. That shuffle, the tenderness and care with which I held my body, made feel only months away from assisted living.
As I write this, a more plausible explanation than age occurs to me. Writing has a consitent therapeutic value, something I appreciate about it. I’ve been inside and hunkered down since late December, only venturing out for Sierra Club, Art Institute, Woolly Mammoth or sheepshead events.
The cabin fever that can strike us Minnesotans during this time has been noticeably absent from me this year. I thought I’d beat it with interesting and varied activities. Nope. This tunnel vision, feeling like life has no breadth, comes from the inside life. It also creates the old guy feeling of a life with no pizzazz and no energy, then reinforces it with whatever examples the environment offers: vertigo, feeling a bit off.
There. Now I have to get ready to go the Institute.
