Sometimes Mondays

Sometimes Mondays

. . . just feel so hopeless.


The news.

Horrible.  Overwhelming.  Relentless.  Piling on and on and on.  Day after day.

This morning, I stepped into my shoes and headed to the gym.  For kickboxing.  Punching.  Kicking.  Sweating.  Things I can control.  It helped.

Sometimes Mondays feel hopeless.  
That's when we need to dig even deeper.


Sometimes Mondays

Oh, man.  Sometimes Mondays look like . . . 


letting go.

You can convince yourself that . . . it's just the laceweight.  (Because things always look wonky with laceweight.

But then it becomes all too obvious on the last row.  (That satisfying last row, y'know . . .  that really pulls everything together.)  
That there is Something Very Wrong.
Something you really should have caught (and done something about) 8 or 10 rows ago.

Because half-way through the final row, you can see that . . . everything is not pulling together anymore.

You apparently lost the plot.  Right there in the middle of a row.  8 or 10 rows back.
(Turns out it wasn't the laceweight.)

And so. . . it is not to be.
Not now.  Probably not ever.
Because you don't have the time.  
Or the energy.  
Or the mindset.  
To fix this.

I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

But I'm not going to find it now.

Sometimes Mondays . . . show you that letting go is the only way.
(And it's going to be just fine.)

Sometimes Mondays

. . . look like an escape.


As summer begins its march toward fall, Tom and I like to escape up north every chance we can.


Here we are.  

Somewhat isolated as we work remotely, trying to soak up every bit of summer we can. 

This Monday, though, we're also trying to make sense of the times we live in, and struggling to comprehend the vermin in our midst (always there, but now unafraid to show their faces).

I think I'll head down to the lake now.  
To watch the loon-baby learn to swim and fish.