DOLDRUMS

There is a gusting breath in my chimney, the same as has been swooshing around our windows all morning, and I have to keep reminding myself, as I do during every storm and weather disturbance, that the house has been standing for a hundred years.  Surely it has seen worse in its time, and so far it has been able to withstand everything it has seen.

We’re sailing into the doldrums of the year, high-speed winds notwithstanding.  The excitement of a new year is waning and winter is just gearing up for a round of grey misery, and the HMS Anne (I’ve always preferred the sound of the British prefix) is floundering in still waters without the bright prospects of impending excitement to stir her sails.  I’m about waist-deep in the enterprise of painting the upstairs hallway, but the initial surge of motivation fed by the inspiration of visible results has petered out into the tedium of touching up edges, of adding a second coat, and a third, and a fourth where necessary . . .

Which brings me to the matter of my resolutions for the new year (or revolutions, as Mark and I have been calling them, partly because it makes them sound weightier and partly because it’s fun to say).  In the best scenario, my ship would be sailing off into the sunset of aspiration at a pleasant clip, and I would be plugging away cheerfully at the hallway project and at the other goals I have so loftily set for myself.  In reality I’m drifting.  I want to read at least a hundred books this year, and I’ve only finished two (unless we stand firm on the matter of technicalities, in which case the grand total drops by one).  I said that I would write something every single day, but many days have passed without a single word put to paper.  I planned to explore unknown parts of the city we now claim as our own, and I haven’t made it farther than the familiar shores of the library, proving only that I am the exact opposite of intrepid.

However, the grand voyage is only two weeks old.  I’ll just have to dig up the motivation to chart a new course.  The non-metaphorical wind is singing ominous tunes on the other side of our windows, but the winds of exhausted metaphor are blowing warm and steady into my sails.

And here I am writing.  I’m four chapters into the book that is sitting beside me.  If I can just make myself bundle into the necessary layers to defend against the persistently blowing cold, I’ll be ready for an exploratory venture to the distant wilds of the grocery store.

This is the HMS Anne, signing off.