take to the sea

I have found, lately, that my emotional state tends to vary between extremes. I'm not used to this; I'm used to feeling great all the time. When I was a junior in high school, I chose to read Moby-Dick for some analytical reading thing; it was the longest one from our selection and I'm nothing if not a show-off. But I actually enjoyed it. I would say it's my favorite, but then I remember the 20-page narrative marathons about the unpleasant greyness of the sky. Anyway, my favorite part of the whole book in in the first chapter:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

And that's how I feel a lot sometimes. I'll admit that I have a tendency to hermit and overthink and run away from my problems. But I found my sea, finally.

Whenever I get sad...or whenever I hate a moment or a day even a little, I put on jeans and my summer staff shirt and my cowboy boots and I go lay out in my yard, pretend that it is a sunday night, and turn on drew holcomb & the neighbors. And sometimes, if the breeze is blowing right, I can trick myself into thinking that I'm on the back porch of Lariat or sitting at Sunset Point, or maybe down in the grass overlooking the valley. And it makes everything okay again.