I experience the week between Christmas and New Year’s in a figuratively foggy state of mind, surprised that another year has evaporated just as I was beginning to get the hang of it. Its calendar, personalized by our everyday scribblings—things to do, places to be—has been replaced with a new one (cats, of course) in that familiar place in the kitchen, the little daily squares once again empty. Waiting.
There is a trace of pressure here. While our weather these past two (or is it three?) weeks has been literally foggy, I can’t blame it for my mental lethargy. I feel like a hitter suffering through a prolonged slump—no alterations to routine or attitude can break its grip. The ball—paragraphs, photographs—slips by, unhittable for the moment. Eventually, as suddenly as they begin, these dry spells disappear and normality returns. But I can tell you this—right now a fastball down the middle of the plate and a clear day stuffed full of sunshine would sure help.
“You can’t blame gravity for falling in love.” —Albert Einstein