Two Minutes of Sadness

While leaving physical therapy this morning, I was struck by two minutes of sadness. In general, I face the world wide-eyed and sunny. This isn't put on; it's not contrived or forced or faked. It's just that in the past few years, I have maintained a very positive attitude despite all that has come my way.

Once in a while, however, I am overcome with sadness. Maybe two or three times a year, I suddenly am overwhelmed and sometimes weep uncontrollably for a few minutes, then dry my eyes, feel refreshed and renewed, and resume my usual upbeat manner. These mood shifts don't seem to be prompted by any external circumstances. Rather, they come on as quickly and as unannounced as a cold breeze on a sweltering summer day.

These temporary dark clouds are perhaps an emotional purging of sorts. Every once in a while, the sadness that is somewhere deep inside me, of which I am not even aware, has to be vomited out.

This morning, the thought that pulsed through my consciousness for those two minutes was that I would never be loved, never have a lover again, never be fondled or kissed or spooned. I would live the rest of my days untouched. This thought did not spill over in tears, though tears were close.

Then I focused my attention on the leaves of a green plant and on the sunshine, and this darkness departed, surely to surface months and months from now, just as unexpectedly.