Convergence

There must be a word better than this.  Convergence.  But it'll do.

Reading Blue Nights starting to feel a chafing deep inside.  46 (me) is no 75 (her)...but.  But.  I recognize some of the things of which she writes as she illuminates the process of aging.

Telling it like they see it.  I love memoirs.

She also ruminates on parenting.  Parenting and aging.  In this second of back-to-back memoirs.  The first about her husband dying, the second about their only child dying.

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Then there was the light.  Walking through the kids' room to the kitchen, I glanced out one of the windows and something about the light outside, completely diffused inside, brought me right back to sophomore year of college, the springtime.

Muscle memory or present chemistry made me lurch, my limbs enervated.

I was in my room, the first room I lived in that I loved (windows on three sides, off of a bigger room I shared with Wendy and Janet).  I withdrew from three or four of the five classes I took that Spring.  I had no energy.  I don't know if I was depressed.  I don't remember if or how much support I sought from the campus clinic.  I don't know how long it lasted.  Long enough that I put graduating on time in jeopardy.

The convergence made me think: I've had this/these kind/s of issues (season, body, mind, energy) for a long time.  Sophomore spring would have been 1982.

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Just thoughts, these thoughts.  Today I lack the chutzpah to create more out of this coming together of disparate yet connected moments.

I do not have a headache today.  Yay.

My body does not ache all over like it did for most of today.  Yay.

I do feel heavy as the densest of elements.  Iridium.  (Thank you, Google.)

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Light.  Sometimes it cuts me to the quick.