feelings

Here I am with a little battery life left. There's a moth flying about while I try to warm up beneath the down comforter I'm so glad I insisted on traveling with. I just got off the phone with my mother, who guided my own hands into fixing a finger I jammed two weeks ago with a weeding tool. I managed to avoid being chased by a rooster today, but only because I'm driving my car two hundred feet to the barn where I keep my food to avoid having to deal with the beast. Although my frustration at having to do that is starting to make running him off with a rake whenever he looks at me seem more appealing. The air here is clean and the wind is fierce and this isn't any kind of story about anything today. Except that I'm keeping myself writing, even with no electricity, reception, or sanity. I had it come to me today from two different sources that we only know what we feel because we think we do. It went something like this...the buzz of human life is so full of lively energy that being out in a place of nature can feel heavy in comparison and that heaviness can feel depressed. And this...there is a feeling after deep meditation that can be called depressed, and it's a fine feeling, it just happens to contrast with that human collective buzz. See, I've been deciding that I really enjoy that slow, heavy feeling of land without people. And I'm imagining that the thing we call peace might be closer to the thing we call depression than we commonly give it credit for. And that there might be something marvelous there (Please see the writings of Matt Licata for a very poetic rendering of my own wonky night-thoughts).This land is green and, if I lie on it, it will envelop me entirely. I can feel gravity more here, but it's not gravity, it's something else. I was laughing with my mom about my newfound way of using a few sips of wine as medicine, since I've been here, since all things went into a kind of flux that I have to escape from just a little each day like letting a bit of air out of a balloon, lest I pop. We were amused by the idea that all of me wants to sink into the weight of this quiet place, and my pinot noir gives the part of me that's still running at high speed a chance to chill the heck out.  I felt forgiven for something I'm not even interested in judging myself for. I can hear the wasps chewing at the barn wall and I've got an hour and a half of daylight left to do nothing with.