Like many folks, I suffer from the winter blues (or grays). A problem that, for me, is exacerbated by the monochromatic padded walls of my daily cell. I’m only guessing the interior decorator was having a really bad day when selecting this color scheme. On a cloudy day, even that beautiful window is filled with grayness.
The bright spots in my space are the various pictures of children of friends and family all smiling prettily as if to remind me, “Chin up, Ducky.” And my climber buddies. These kids are avid builderers, in that they climb buildings. Currently, my she-climber is in the middle of climbing her way out of a wicked, steep roof while her he-climbing partner (who is never on lead because women climbers rock it a little more hard-core here) is safely giving her a hanging belay.
Today, though, they serve as a reminder that I let the doldrums creep their way in and suck out my joie de vive. I haven’t tied into a rope in about 4 weeks. I have a standing date on Monday and Friday nights with Bryan, my amazing, soft-spoken, quietly encouraging climbing partner…and I’ve repeatedly bailed.
It’s a catch 22. My melancholia zaps my desire to do the things that I love. Those things that I love, though, those are the things that make me feel great about who I am, where I’m going, what I have to offer. Those things that I love are what help keeps the melancholia at bay.
Why is it so easy to give in to the grayness?
I never give a big “EFF YOU” to the thing I know is going to seep in and demand a stronger foothold by going out, being with friends, climbing my heart out, and loving myself.
“Oh hey. It’s you again. Let me call Bryan and cancel. You know were the ice cream is. No hogging the blankets this time and, please, no more romantic comedies!”
Not today, friends.