A friend of my daughter’s called it The Fear when she was in high school even though she couldn’t really explain it.  I call it The Dreads. I think Churchill called it The Black Dog. Moods that stalk you, inducing either general universal anxiety (what if the oil spill creates a dead ocean?) that has no answer or a personal sadness that you just can’t shake. I’ve had it lately, despite the latest/greatest antidepressant my doctor can find and a life that is just so incredibly lucky. We give it these names in order to distance  ourselves from it or cut it down to size, but I think it’s the knowledge of our own mortality and the questioning and questing that goes along with it that dogs us.  That dark shadow is anathema to us, because we are busy being the best we can be, getting empowered, waiting for the Universe to grant our dearest wish, buying stuff to fill up the empty rooms of our soul house. It’s such a tightrope we walk — to love the light with all our might and at the same time, acknowledge the dark that waits for us at the end. And I probably cudgel my brain about it way too much–that’s why I love Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “Recipe for Happiness Khaborovsk or Anyplace.”

One grand boulevard with trees
With one grand cafe in sun
With strong black coffee in very small cups.

One not necessarily very beautiful
Man or woman who loves you.

One fine day.

The only upside to being sick is taking hydrocodone cough syrup. You’re still sick, but you don’t seem to mind it as much

Every time Sally Field hawks Boniva on TV, I want to break one of her fragile wings.

I know handmade crafts are the hallmark of hip sustainable eco culture, but why is so much of it ugly, and will felting ever die?

I’m terrible at conducting job interviews. I never trust myself not to hire a secret psycho, which has actually happened twice.

My new guilty pleasure is Kelly Cutrone on “The City,” but she scares me.

Every time I apply self-tanner I look like I’ve been rolling in dung.

I spend more time reading about writing than actually writing.

I find it difficult to cry in front of people, so I probably come across as unfeeling.

Sometimes when I’m cooking, I pretend I’m on a Food Network show and talking to an audience. So nerdy.

Today when I was packing to visit my family in Seattle, I came across an old travel brochure for Moorea in French Polynesia, which I thought at one time I’d visit. The cover showed a resort with thatched huts on stilts in the water, which was a beautiful transparent aquamarine, and I thought, I wish I could have done that. And I immediately realized I could do that if I really want to…the only thing holding me back is me. I could find the money, even though it would be quite a stretch, and I can take the time off work, so what’s holding me back? I think when I say I wish, I mean I wish I could imagine having fun by myself or I wish I were more spontaneous, or I wish I knew what I really wanted to do. I’m taking a book with me called The Wishing Year and I hope it gives me some insight into how to make wishing less wistful and more purposeful. Wish me luck.

It’s easy for me to be philosophical and full of hope when things are going well, but I don’t always set a great example for myself or anyone around me when things don’t go my way. Yesterday several things came unraveled at once, and I threw myself onto my unmade bed and sobbed into the pillow for a long time for no reason and every reason: the unmade bed, the grandson I love who can’t find his way, my daughter’s illness, problems at work, my lack of ideas, the broken dishwasher, my screwed-up knee, the stupid purchase I didn’t need that showed up in the mail just when I was worrying about money, a skirt that was suddenly too tight and nothing in the house to eat but flax chips and hummus (any connection with the tight waistband?). I can make up the bed, return the purchase and get the dishwasher fixed, but I have to admit that there are some things on that list that are too big for me, things I don’t know how to solve, things that I can only hand over to the universe, the great spirit, the holy fixer of broken hearts and people. I’m learning how to be in the dark and wait.

Today on my way to work, I got caught in the staging of the St. Patrick’s Day parade and couldn’t get to my parking lot. I had no choice but to sit in my car at a standstill until the parade got underway. My reaction? Petulance, anger, irritation at all things Irish. But instead of feeling trapped in my car, I could have pulled out my Kindle (purchased for the purpose of passing time during travel and traffic jams), listened to an audio book on my iPhone or just enjoyed the craziness of the scene, like spotting the doctor who gave me my colonoscopy wearing a leprechaun costume. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get that out of my mind. And what was so urgently awaiting me at work?  Nothing that couldn’t have waited, nothing that was going to change the world. When I finally pulled into my parking space, I realized what a jerk I’d been, and I was disappointed in the part of me that is so self-important she can’t be stalled in traffic, so lacking spontaneity that she can’t enjoy a parade, so impatient she can’t be entertained by her own thoughts for 15 minutes!  So many lessons still to be learned.