A Tale from Blueville

“Julie, do you have a headache today?” asked my coworker. I thought she was inquiring because my office was lit by lamp light only.

I nodded, miserable.

“I'm asking because I woke up with a headache too. It must be the weather.”

I mentioned that I would probably benefit from having a good cry and the next thing I knew, her arms were wrapped around me. She was cooing to me as a loving mother sings to her baby. Her kindness unleashed sobs that shook my achy body.

I don't cry easily when I'm solitary, which means I carry around the weight of needing to cry along with the usual stressers of daily life and as well as the heaviness of not so ordinary concerns. My colleague validated me, honored the sad place I was in, and listened to me as I said the hard things outloud.

Another colleague offered me some Excederin, which I accepted curious if it would help. It did.

I sat in the dim light and forged ahead with my work at a slower, gentler pace than I'm usually capable of.

Blueville.

That's what I'm calling this place I'm currently in.

What's remarkable is that I haven't felt a bout of this sadness for months. It's been really great. I have felt light and happy. But the thing about the past few days is that I'm reminded about the impermanence that is woven into all of life. The bad stuff won't last forever, but neither will the good.

I haven't been writing lately, which contributes to my low moods. But I'm navigating the terrain of being a granddaughter without grandparents. My grandfather's health has quickly declined, and I am pondering what my life will look like when he is no longer physically accessible. He provides me with a unique brand of love and support, and I am mulling over what it will mean to miss it when it is gone.

As I ponder, I have spent most of my free time laying under the warmth of a blanket on my couch binge-watching a British series on Netflix. My to-do list has remained unchecked: wash the dishes, return checked-out items to the library, grocery shop.

I call this relaxation self-care, and I know I have come a long way in being kinder to myself because I haven't chastised myself for the hours I've spent doing nothing.

Embracing brief stays in Blueville helps me lean into the discomfort and disorientation of feeling sad. It reminds me that it's a human thing to be sad, and that I don't need to be fixed. Some problems don't have solutions. They just take up residency in our hearts and minds, and they ease only when we invite them in rather than resist.

I have come so far in understanding my life and my place in it, but this stop over in Blueville also reminds me that I still have a way to go. There is still stuff—hard stuff—I have to learn. And the best way to get from here to there is with patience and kindness. Laying on the couch last night, I realized that while I didn't love how I felt, I wasn't frightened of these strong feelings like I was a year ago.

Another friend messaged me encouragement. I gulped down his comforting words and belief in my abilities to write, to inspire, and to keep growing in the direction I want to go like a thirsty runner.

What I also know now better than a year ago, is that the more I welcome these brief stints in Blueville, the sooner the moment passes.

Twenty-four hours later, I feel the migraine pain receding and my heavy heart feels lighter. Blueville will soon be seen through the rear view mirror of my mind. The beautiful thing about pain is the relief and renewed energy I feel when it eases, as it always does.