A terrible tide of grumped up grouch arose to claim my moods today, and I only barely wanted to do anything about it. Unexpectedly, several rounds of climbing up a sledding hill to the point of heart poundings because holding a 40 pound small child somehow worked to sooth my irrationally terse inner-beast mode of storm cloud and eyeroll.
Perhaps the downturn could be ascribed to the typical paroxysms of the psyche which occur when one feels a lack of control. I’m sane enough to be grateful that it’s nothing worse, but I am stressed out by the failure to procure new housing as a springtime move out deadline looms ever nearer.
Come to think of it, the specter of a move is in general a drag, with so many elements tending toward drudgery and high potential for regret. It’s like purposefully placing a careful collection of the most fragile eggs in a likely shoddy basket that probably lacks proper insulation and is set on a too-busy street with loud dogs barking next door.
So my flawed human brain figured to be mean and impatient to see if that helped matters. None too surprising, that seemed only to accomplish the killing of everybody’s joy.
Thus proving the existence of body wisdom, where bones and blood and air converge into strength enough to scale a height of dragging snow, recover and have a look at the closer sky, to then again allow the thrill of ceding some control over the downward slide.