Chopping tart red apples for chutney, simmering the first mushroom ragout of the winter. In my scattered ragbag thoughts, a flow of heartbreaking images from Nepal. Heart-stop, heart-start.
This sadness is bigger than B vitamins, it
is not interested in working around my schedule,
or all your good ideas, it arrives anyway
on wings of fog and stays awhile
“Love Is a Messy Broken Thing, Part 6,” Jacks McNamara
Depression, the word, is useless. There’s no music
no romance, no reclaiming it. Neither word nor illness
can be made into bedroom play. Comedy, maybe?
“So a guy walks into a bar…I mean the ER,
no I mean a bar … no I mean ER.” Same difference.
Divorced from the root
depression divvies, clinically scores me
into that and this and this and this.
But sadness is bigger than my last relapse.
This sadness is bigger than B vitamins,
is bigger than the SAD lamp that brightens my desk.
Bigger than ten milligrams twice a day.
Sadness holds more than all the second-
hand coffee mugs at an AL-ANON meeting
takes more time than the self-help
workbook my poetics professor gifted me
longer than the long-distance collect call
my mother refused to accept.
Too urgent to be wait-listed, it
is not interested in working around a schedule, or
another referral from the Red Book.
So tremendous, sadness
doesn’t know where the world ends
and my body begins.
Sure, no bullshit about communing with the universe
but you won’t catch me being laissez-faire
about upper case “W” Wholeness.
I practice sadness because it subsumes
all my shady moods and
all my good ideas. It arrives any way