When I'm at my job, my soul is dead. But as soon as I step out of the office, life is filled with beauty. I step out of the office in the middle of the day for lunch hour. I lie back in the grass on the hillside. I slip off my sandals and feel the grass beneath my feet. I gaze up at the leaves of the sycamore maple. I see a woodchuck scurrying in the field, and a hawk soaring in the sky.
When I'm home evenings and weekends, I sit on my balcony. I see the cottonwood leaves fluttering in the breeze. I feel the breeze caress my skin. I hear the robins, crows, grackles, and squirrels. Below, I see the rabbits dining on clover.
I wake up Saturday mornings and lie in bed listening to the radio, enjoying the clever, silly humor I hear on "Car Talk," and "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me."
I love staring into space, daydreaming. Thoughts form in my head, and in time, they are ready to be born, so I go to my computer and write emails and blogs. I love giving words to my thoughts, expressing myself.
I love putting on a CD and dancing around the living room, my body giving expression to the music.
I love structured dancing too, going to Morris dance practice, trying to hold the patterns in my head, coordinating my moves with other dancers, banging sticks together, becoming a community.
I love going out on nature walks, being fascinated by the trees, seeing herons, hearing frogs.
I love rollerblading, feeling the strength of my body as I move.
I love my life. Why turn away from all these things that I love, and think of anything unpleasant?
When I'm at my job, my soul is dead. But as soon as I step out of the office, life is filled with beauty. As soon as I step out of my office, I forget about my job. The people who know me know that I don't like my job, but they don't really know much about what it's like. I don't talk about it, because when I'm not there, it's gone from my mind.
But always I have to go back. I deny the unpleasant reality, but it never goes away. And so I must face it. I must take time away from writing blogs and watching the cottonwood leaves flutter to figure out what to do.
But not now, okay? There's still another topic I want to write about in my blog. Later. I'll worry about unpleasantness later.