Like many days since my Dad died, I spent the last few weeks in a bit of a haze, dazedly going about life’s daily routine on a sort of auto-pilot. After 48 years of living, sometimes you coast like that. It’s not my favored status. I’m not one for phoning things in (and not just because I hate talking in the phone). If I’m not wholly invested in something, I usually don’t do it. That’s not always possible with a job and mortgage and the basic responsibility of surviving.
And so I daze off, lost in a kind of soft focus, not totally or completely present. I can’t tell if anyone notices, and I’m not sure if that’s because I don’t want to know. The power of wishful thinking is a real thing. Rather than go too hard on myself, I’m accepting this, and waiting until I feel the stir of motivation. If it doesn’t come, it doesn’t come. The big chill is a real middle-aged issue, and there are good and bad things that come from it. A certain dulling and deadness to the world as it now stands isn’t entirely unwelcome.
