I had a lovely break and possibly a life-changing experience at the men's retreat; time will tell. I think that last night, due to the experience of the retreat and resuming Zyprexa (an antipsychotic drug used in severe depressions and also mania), my head came above water and I feel much better today, though admittedly fragile. I can even wrap my brain around the idea of hope ("having to construct something to hope upon" --Eliot, "Ash Wednesday").
I wrote this sonnet today; it began in my too busy mind while I was watering the garden. (I couldn't post a sonnet for "Sonnet Sunday" because I was where bears proverbially shit.)
Be quiet my head, suspend your ceaseless chatter.
The soup inside your skull is boiling hot
With details and demons—it doesn’t matter—
Whatever you thought you thought, you already thought.
Be quiet my head, the animals command you.
They have no words for water, air or food
And yet they drink and eat just as we do
But have no scent for being misunderstood.
See that large raven? When he calls he calls
For now and for forever, and when he flies
He has no thought of flying but never falls.
His being is his doing; he knows no lies,
Unlike his human brothers who march to war
And soon forget what they were fighting for.
I will not rate myself in kilorats or bunnies. Faith is all.