melancholy

I’m just going to say it. The end of 2015 was a clusterfuck of mixed-up energies of epic proportions. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but you get what I mean. Besides, many of YOU were the ones that were calling it to my attention.

When I wrote about how conflicted I felt about how sad I felt in paradise, the genie was out of the bottle! SO many of you were sad too–for no apparent reason–which just makes it all the more confusing. At least if someone fell and broke a hip or your cat got run over–you know why you want to crawl under the bed.

We all like reasons for our emotions. I know I do.

Even my teenage niece just wasn’t feelin’ it in December and she was raised by elves in Santa’s Village, North Pole, USA. We count on her to buoy the rest of us with her unlimited teenage-girl holiday enthusiasm, decorating her room with white twinkle lights and making sure every square inch of my sister’s house looks like a reindeer barfed Christmas (and presents), everywhere.

Not this year. She was…melancholy. We’re just chalking it up to the weird energy and he fact that a certain amount of melancholy is synonymous with being sixteen.

Okay so everybody felt sad. I get that. But here’s where it got interesting.
Suddenly, the week after Christmas, I was overtaken by an overwhelming sense of…optimism.

Like 2016 was going to be the best year ever!

Again, I had nothing, whatsoever, besides my usual delusional thinking on which to base that upbeat prognosis.

When I spoke up at the New Years Eve party, expecting to get pummeled with dinner rolls, instead, everyone, get that? EVERYONE agreed!

2016 is going to be awesome. And we have no idea why.

A couple of people, Danielle La Porte being one of them, wrote about the numerology behind the year 2016.

2016 2+0+1+6 = 9 the year of answered prayers.
What? Are you kidding? Prayers? Answered? Well, no wonder we’re all collectively peeing our pants. Who doesn’t love answered prayers?! Don’t you fucking LOVE knowing that?

The Year of Answered Prayers.

That unclenches my jaw AND my butt. A real double-whammy.

I can hear you. You’re all asking yourselves right now: Hey, (our tribe starts everything with “hey”), hey, does Janet pray? Hell yeah! And meditate and chant and write shit down and ask nicely in my most polite voice. I cover all of my request-line bases.

So, the other night, In answer to prayer 4,567,389, is this really going to be such a great year? I had a dream where I watched as the night sky was carpeted with falling stars. There were thousands a minute. It was the meteor shower of all meteor showers and because it was so extraordinary I knew it was a dream. Still, I squealed and clapped with delight like I do when I watch fireworks. When I woke up I felt elated. (which was the polar opposite of sad and that made me worry for a sec that maybe I was losing my shit).

Of course I looked it up:
“To see a meteor in your dream suggests that you will experience success in a project. You are on your way toward realizing your goals and desires. Alternatively, the meteor refers to wishful thinking and idealistic thoughts.
To see a meteor shower in your dream signifies romantic thoughts and idealistic notions.”

…and answered prayers you guys. The year of answered prayers.

Breath in…breathe out…and carry on

xox

The Sound Of Silence
-By Simon and Garfunkel

“Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted
In my brain still remains
Within the sound of silence.”

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed Monday.

I went to sleep in lovely Los Angeles, California and woke up on the dark side of the moon.
It was desolate, deplete of oxygen, and I found myself suffocating in sadness.

I had nightmares all night long, you know the ones. You can’t for the life of you remember anything except how awful they left you feeling upon awakening.
A pit in your stomach, a heart full of dread and a bitter aftertaste as a parting gift.

The dogs are fine, our health is good, the weekend was unremarkable…

So what gives?
There was no apparent reason to feel such malaise, but I have the kind of mind that searches for a reason, so I spent an hour digging up the corpses of buried woes.
It’s the opposite of a gratitude list.
It reminded me of a mutant case of PMS on steroids.
I’m sure you can relate.

Starting with Woe Number 378:
Why can’t I lose that stubborn twenty pounds so that I can be the weight I was MY WHOLE LIFE – until I turned fifty? There is not a bag of potato chips big enough to sooth me. Could it be because I eat the same amount of food that my 6’4″ – 250 pound husband does. Sometimes more? Nah. I didn’t think so.

Number 217
God dammit, some days I’m so God damn old.
I wrote the previous post about it. Hey, maybe that’s what sent me off the deep end.

BTW – I couldn’t write on Monday – just wasn’t feelin’ it. I couldn’t have found an inspirational thing to say to you if you’d have paid me a million dollars. Seriously.
Not sure today is any better, but misery loves company, so I thought I’d share.

I function at a pretty high happiness level, so this felt like shit and I was desperate to feel better.

Sat down to meditate…it felt like the express elevator into the abyss, so I took a pass.

I took off on my power walk like I always do in the mornings. It helps balance me.
That’s when I listen to all the inspirational talks I have on my phone. It sets the mood for the day, and usually when I get back – I’m pumped! AND I’ve accomplished the 10,000 steps needed to keep a flat “writer’s ass” at bay.

Every step from that point on is gravy. Even the ones to the fridge. It’s the law.

But Monday I was so low that the walk only got me to a place where I could suppress the ugly cry.
Tears were right at the surface.
Big ones. Unspecific but insistent, with sobbing and snot and oy, oy, oy-ing.

Number 442
The boxer-shark-puppy has dug up half the back lawn and it is a continuous mud pit. The dried mud is everywhere, paw prints, nose prints, butt prints, you name it; to the point where I’ve stopped sweeping or washing or hosing the outside living area. We all just sit in the filth.
She has also become extremely destructive, eating our plantation shutters, chairs, and a carefully curated list of items she knows I really love.

When I returned from my calming, centering, inspirational walk, the puppy had breached the defensive fort my husband had built to keep her away from the shutters, finding an opening and then dropping in from above, like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.
The old dog just watched while she gnawed a shutter-slat into a toothpick.

So I had to beat my dog. Number 12.
There came the tears. I hate training and punishment. I cried my head off – she filed her nails and popped her gum like the brat she is. (Relax – it’s one of those flimsy little coupon flyers wrapped in a plastic bag, so it sounds worse that it feels – followed by a time-out in a small bathroom.)

At noon I recovered enough to go help a friend brainstorm some work stuff, which focused my mind and actually felt really good. As I walked up the driveway upon my return, a light rain was falling. I was at once reminded of the puppy destruction displayed in the side window, the fact that our gutters are filled with leaves and our trim needs paint along with the pit of impending mud in the back.

That acted like a one way ticket straight back to hell.

Which led to the “Come to Jesus” talk last night.

Not the puppy and I – me and my husband.
I think he was a little scared of me in my melancholy state. Probably because I started with the declarative statement: “I know I’m a piece of work right now, and you love me but you’re probably not in love with me – anyway…”
Looking at me like you do a wild beast that’s about to rip you to shreds, he backed away, shaking his head, and silently (that silent part is SO smart) got the crate back down from the attic so that the puppy will live to see another day, and we can salvage some window coverings and continue to sit on chairs with legs.

Then I watched “When Harry Met Sally” to remember how to smile, and went to bed.

Some days are beyond salvaging.

All this to say: Holy Shit! I have horrible days. I do!

Dark side of the moon, sounds of silence, I can’t meditate, so don’t ask me to, beat the dog, see every flaw, cry baby, demon possessed, post menopause PMS, wild beast, unreasonable, pick a fight, non-salvageable days.

Here’s praying today’s a better day.

Dear God (or Source or Whomever),
Every day is a gift.
Filled with potential.
Please don’t let me spend another day in hell.
I won’t call the day wasted, even though it sure felt like it.
I’ll just consider it part of the ebb and flow of life.
It will make me appreciate the good days that much more.

…Oh, that’s sneaky God. That thing you do.

Water never tastes as good as when you’re really thirsty.
Food never tastes better than when you’re famished.
It never feels as good to sleep as when you’re exhausted.

Okay.
I get it.
Wise guy.

Xox