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“After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.”
by Emily Dickinson

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square831Awakening brought a turbulence of thought. The Supreme Court decision, troubles online, and other matters swept through my head — and like a white water raftsman passing through the Inner Gorge, I thrilled to every second of it. Fortunately, I had an appointment with my therapist. I dressed, ate, walked the dog, and then got in the truck for the drive to Laguna Hills. Enroute, I came to a rise on El Toro Road. A pair of bikers mounted the crest. One wore Day-Glo green-yellow and the other a pink so bright to my hypomanic eyes that I averted my gaze so that they wouldn’t hypnotize me. Then I saw the double yellow lines streaming over the top. They had never seemed so brilliant as they had at that moment. I knew by this that my mood was surging with the slope of the road.

“There are certain difficult things that I need to do,” I told my therapist, “but I can’t do them now because I would enjoy them just too much.” She laughed because I was laughing hard.

On the way back, I saw a cop car stopped by the side of the road, its lights flashing. It started moving as I approached, then picked up speed, turned a corner and vanished into traffic. A second sheriff’s deputy came from the opposite direction. Then as I came to a stoplight, a third one entered the intersection, slowing at the crossroads before zooming to the scene of all the excitement, its lights flashing white yellow red, white yellow red.