There are days in which I feel I’m carrying a bag of rocks. I’m not sure how they get in, but there they are. Lumpy black and brown, rough-hewn shapes that clack and grind against each other. I don’t remember picking any up, but I notice the extra weight when doing any mental or emotional heavy lifting.
There are times when I forget about the bag, and it rests on the ground, sullen and silent, biding the time in which it knows what distracting activity I’m in will end at some point. Lunch in the sunshine, laughing with a friend, or being lost in the moment: in all of those things, the bag is forgotten. Not empty, just ignored.
Thursday nights or rare daytimes that pass with a swish of finery, the tap-tap-tap of heels, and dash of lipstick. When I remember to think to check the bag: it’s empty, almost gossamer wisps.
The spring in my step and joyful thoughts at the time grabbed boosts my spirits. Days pass, but then, I hear the grind of stone.
So it is, and so I keep track of good things and try not to listen to the rocks. Let the twist and grunt, because moments will drive them away, and outings free me.