I drove home with my window down and my radio tuned to the station that plays half good music (stuff that may exist on my own playlists)—and half songs I'd never pay money to hear. As each new car came close, in the opposite direction, its VROOM amplified—then faded as it passed. The onomatopoeia occurred to me—and also how much this sound sounded like the simplified version of it we share with kids. I thought of sheep and how it's true in this case too—sheep sound like humans trying to sound like sheep.
Little tufts of white cotton-looking things floated in front of the windshield. I remembered 12 years ago when I moved here that June and saw giant clouds of this stuff billowing down Battery Street. It was nothing we had in New York City or Western PA. It was beautiful. And bizarre. I wondered what it did to allergy sufferers.
I was feeling good, grateful I'd chosen to go to my writing group, despite not having completed the short assignment, even though I felt I had too much else I should do. But I went anyway, knowing that these fun and funny, clever and creative people would help lighten my mood.
And driving back home to my to-dos, with a few Angela-recommended City Market-scored snacks, it occurred to me: I'm getting better at knowing what I need to keep my soul from slipping into a total slump—and making a break for it.
