I do a cursory search of the Internet and find nothing with the direct quote "I've got the St. John's Wort Blues," (or "I got the St John's Wort blues) so, if at some future date, you find the phrase somewhere on the web just remember you first read it here on my blog.
Anyway, it happens to me every year, near the end of summer, a melancholy will come over me, and if I am not careful it will overcome me. This began sometime in the late 1970's, when I was a mother of young children and it was "back to school" time. I learned quickly to control the sweet sadness by acknowledging it and then keeping it tempered by throwing myself into a project that would require a major part of my physical and mental effort, such as, refinishing a piece of antique furniture, completely redecorating a room in our home, or putting a koi pond in the yard.
(I have an acquaintance, who I'll call, oh, I don't know, how about, "Dee?" I'm almost certain Dee does not read my blog, but just in case she does, let me insert a note here, that I by no means wish to make light of those who suffer from depression, a serious illness-
Whenever I try to inject a bit of humor into a story I'm telling Dee, like the time I told her about So&so's husband being diagnosed with Lyme's Disease, she'll say something like, "You know Lyme's Disease is not a laughing matter." To which I, then, must reply, "Of course not. I was not laughing at his having Lyme's Disease, I merely meant that I was amused that when he continually complained to his wife about the fever, chills, fatigue, body aches, headaches, and an occasional rash he'd experienced, her response was, 'Oh, come on dear, how bad can it be? Suck it up, you wimp! You're getting older. You have to expect the aches and pains of old age.' I find this laughable because it's exactly what I would have said to my Dear-but-Sometimes-Beleaguered Husband." I find humor in human failing, especially my own as a wife, mother, and well, as a human.)
Anyway, back to my melancholy, which returns annually, like the swallows to Capistrano, except I think that happens in the spring, so maybe more like the monarchs' return to Mexico. Alas, in my case, this is not a reason to rejoice. Over the years, I've attempted to understand the root of it. Was the sadness originally a sense of loss of control, that came to a "stay-at-home" mother, upon the return of her children to the school that would dominate their day? Was it a rejection of the schedules and time constraints that came with the academic routine, after a summer of spending leisurely days at the beach with nary a glance at a clock or wristwatch? As the children grew, the melancholy grew in strength. Was it the loss of their childhood, as they grew into adulthood? When they, as young adults, moved away I was crushed with "empty nest syndrome." That may have been the autumn that I single-handedly converted the backyard of our city home into an urban sanctuary, with raised garden beds (plus the koi pond), and replaced the lawn with a patio of antique pavers.
I've done an in depth self-analysis and am pretty certain that autumn reminds me of the inevitability of death, and not in a morbid way, but in a way that the acknowledgment of it makes me appreciate, all the more, every thing I love about life, including the joy of family and thus the pain when children mature and leave home; and including the planning and carryout of labor intensive projects to keep myself feeling useful in their absence.
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It's the time of year that we must take our boat out of the water and store it for the winter. The boat happens to have a 3/4 full tank of gas, so first we have to burn some fuel. Not-So-Beleaguered-Today Husband and I take her for one last summer ride, or should I say she takes us for a ride?
Oh, and it's a picture perfect end-of-summer day - 79 degrees. The sky is softly dappled with clouds, as if the angels took a sifter of powdered sugar and sprinkled it across the blue. The sun kisses my skin with warmth. I don't worry about sunscreen today. (And to Dee, "Yes, I realize the seriousness of skin cancer.")
The lake is empty because it is past Labor Day and residents and guests are back to their autumnal schedules. Not-So-Beleaguered-Today Husband has the freedom to open up the throttle and careen right down the peripheries of the wake zone. He takes deep "s" shaped curves as we burn up the excess fuel.
I feel the wind in my face, my hair is blowing straight back (like it looks after a visit to the salon), an occasional bit of mist from the wake hits my face and I can faintly smell the lake's weeds and fresh water fish. It's a pleasant smell (certainly nicer than the local 20,000-head hog farm just miles away, which by the way is at its ripest in the fall.)
I look back at our wake and it reminds me of when I was a child and I would rise at dawn to ride my bicycle in the tall grass behind my grandfather's house in Wisconsin. The grass was wet with dew and would fall from the weight of the bike. I'd look back at the curves I'd carved out, in awe of my own cunning.
Depending on the angle, our boat wake occasionally casts a small rainbow, or the beads of water look like diamonds sparkling in the sun. Together Not-So-Beleaguered-Today Husband and I laugh with pure joy. And my only thought is how I wish that I could preserve this moment forever. I take a photo, but that's not quite the same. I put down my smartphone, determined to experience the moment, to hold it in my brain, you know put it there and then cork it, save it's sweetness for a harsh winter day, then pull it out and sprinkle it on us like my imagined angels with their sifters of powdered sugar.
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| Angel sprinkled sweetness |
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| Can't do this on weekends! |
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| See the little rainbow? |
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| A partial view of my melancholy-induced work ;) |
