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“Inside, I found three things: a silver mirror, a silk handkerchief, and a glass flask of ointment.  If you ever lose faith in yourself, the mirror will show your inner beauty.  In case your reputation is stained, the handkerchief will remind you of how pure your heart is.  As for the balm, it will heal your wounds, both inside and outside.” – Elif Shafak

I’ve just returned from a work conference. Usually, I find attending conferences energizing: motivational speakers, keynotes, hearing new ideas, meeting new people, and catching up with friends.

But, after this latest one, however, I feel strangely deflated.  It could be that I had strep throat, or that my speaking responsibilities left me less able to relax.   Now, I have a sense of unease and fatigue I can’t shake.

The nature of my industry, or business in general, has been getting to me recently.  Although there is competition in all things, I am generally content to coexist.  The expectation to push can be exhausting.

I envision lions crouching in the Savannah around a herd.   The roar is loud and terrible.  I wish I were a bird flying above it.  I tell myself I am being dramatic and impatient.  Really, there is nothing wrong.

Everyone is well, and I have everything to be thankful for.  Logically, I know all of this, but still, I feel nameless anxiety permeating the air around me.

Hoping music will distract from my mood, I’m revisit a piano piece in my spare time.  It’s a study by Schumann,  structured in triads.  Each trio in the left hand is answered by another in the right.  The voices have alluded me in the past, making the dynamics difficult.

Today, it seems clearer.  I hear the three notes in the left triad, ‘look at me,’ followed by the right hand, ‘I can too.’  It sounds like a big sister bossing, and a little sister, refusing to be outdone.  In the beginning, it is a dance, the two moving in lockstep.  The first steps forward, and the second follows.

Then, there is a section, all accidentals and dissonance, as if they are pulling away from one another.  The notes are jumbled, and difficult to hear; I think I’ve made a mistake, and am surprised to see these are the intended chords.  Eventually, it resolves, and the main theme repeats.  As it ends in diminuendo, you wonder if they have really made peace, or decided to stop trying altogether.

This is rather how life feels at the moment.  Perhaps, it is natural to feel low in the rain.  Lethargic and disinterested, I want to curl up with a book, and nap until the sun comes out.

I see wetlands in my mind, damp and sticky, cattails standing still in the absence of a breeze.  I want to lie down in that swamp.  I imagine submerging myself in the mud; it is a warm and comfortable thought.  It reminds me of the dreams I have at night, strange and exotic places, and always unseen predators, such as the beady-eyed alligators that live in my swamp.

I tell myself the return of the sun is the balm I need, although, I know this pervasive air runs deeper.  The summer is coming though, despite the wet chill in the air.  I see landscapers pulling droopy pansies from the ground.  They pile them in an awkward heap.  It makes me sad, to throw out something still living.   I remove spent blooms from pansies and primroses at my doorstep, and give them a drink.  They seem to perk up.

The next morning when I awake, the sky is cloudy.  The humidity in the air, however, foretells of a warm day to come.  I tell myself what I need is external motivation.

We see the movie RBG.  I am intrigued by her story, and ashamed how little I know of this woman whose efforts have so shaped the gains in equality women enjoy today.  I admire her courage, matriculating to Harvard Law among a sea of men in 1956, and her work ethic, burning the midnight oil until 4 am, a legal scholar.  I rather like the idea of being a student of one’s own profession.

Next, I visit the Bucks County Garden Home. In this annual event benefiting the hospital, local designers and landscape architects take on a new home and garden project.  The house and grounds are open to the public for one month.  I’ve been meaning to go as long as we’ve lived here, but never made the time.

This year’s home is on a farm in Pipersville, PA.  I read in the guidebook the land was originally settled in the early 1700’s by Dutch colonists who lived in peace with the local Lenni-Lenape Indians.  I wonder, what that would have been like?

As I wander through the surrounding woods, I think it may have looked similar then.  The light gently pervades the tree canopy; dappled leaves overhang the wood chipped pathway.  The landscape designers have left this area wild.  Virginia creeper intertwines with broad leaf vine, crisscrossing the forest floor.  Squirrels dart here and there in between tall ferns.

The property contains two homes, and several outbuildings, including a ranch house, and the original farm-house, each room a masterpiece by a different designer.  In one, creamy, French lace festoons the window casings, while accents of crystal and lavender products from a local farm make one think of the warm embrace of a B&B stay.  In another, the walls are lined with books, and the contrasting mallard blue walls, and rich chocolate leather furniture invite one to stay and ponder awhile.  The windows showcase views of the garden and surrounding farm fields. The air is warm, and the skies are clearing.

And just like that, as I emerge into the sunlight, I am Olaf, singing of summer. In fair summer air, all seems possible and certain to come about quite easily.  I know this not to be true, but I choose to breathe in the warm air, and believe it is so.