Regarding Seasonal Affective Disorder
One year ago, I had the worst anxiety attack of my life. One
year later, I cut down a tree and it was good. I’ll elaborate.
Sam, Adam and I felled a dead tree down at Adam’s house in
the Sierras. Sam did the sawing, and I did the pulling. Adam held the camera.
We did this at the behest of his mom, who rightfully figured that we were precisely
the kinds of morons to take up such a task with great enthusiasm -- because any
excuse to fart around with axes and chainsaws is appealing to city-slickers,
such as us. The process basically went like this:
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Sam, thrilled that he finally had an excuse to
do so, bought a chainsaw one morning while Adam and I watched the early football
games.
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Lunch
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Cocktails.
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TIMBER!
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Back to watching football.
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Adam grilled a hunk of meat.
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We spend an hour arguing about what movie to
watch.
We combined the tree-felling (and various halftimes) with
the creation and organization of firewood and kindling for the upcoming snowy
season. Yet another thing Adam’s mom should be pleased with.
Now I recognize this is in no way interesting to the many
people who do not live in buildings with central heating such as I, folks that must
do this lest they spend the winter in an environment in which the milk won’t
spoil if left out of the fridge. Much like shoveling snow, I assume this chore
to widely be considered a tremendous pain in the ass. So, I do not blame you
for being unimpressed by my boastful tale of novice woodsmanship, which is
totally a word because I say so.
I mention it, at all, to make the following point: in the
simplicity of the task, I felt beauty. Beauty being outside in the crisp, fall
air. Beauty seeing the oranges and reds of the turning leaves. Beauty in the company
of people who I love. Beauty in the laughter at our amateurish, yet successful methods.
Beauty in the participation in a chore done by our ancestors since the time of
stone tools. Beauty in the cuts and scratches on my forearms. Beauty in the
soreness in my back and shoulders from using unfamiliar muscles. Beauty enough
that I felt a twinge of unexpected sadness when the job was done. And that
segued to sudden fear that the previous year’s anxiety attack was destined to
return.
As a person who is often affected by a mental funk that
generally coincides with the sun setting earlier in the day, I have before lamented
greatly the passing of summer and felt significant worry about the prospect of storm-clouds
taking hold in my head. Yet, I’ve learned that it doesn’t have to be this way.
I know that there are many things I love about the fall and winter, like the woodcutting
experiences listed above, the solstice-related holidays, the decorations, the
ice skaters in Union Square, the opportunity to wear a cap and leather gloves
comfortably, the food, the goodwill towards my fellow humans, and the mulled
wine. I love the annual screenings of Scrooged,
Die Hard, and The Muppet Christmas Carol. I love the work parties. I love seeing
my breath in front of my face as I walk the Embarcadero.
There’s beauty in all of it, in sunshine and darkness, in mountains
and tropics.
Those of you who follow my Instagram might have figured out I’ve
been reading a lot about Stoicism over the past year. The core concepts of it repeatedly
ring true to me in my day to day existence. One such concept, I lean on the
most when I feel the Winter Blues, or the Whenever Blues, anxiety, anger, fear,
dissatisfaction, and/or frustration coming my way: Amor Fati, the love of one’s fate.
I now accept that I am going to feel how I am going to feel,
and that’s just dandy.
I love the beauty and the ugliness. I loved the clean splits
with the axe just like I loved the ones that sent pieces of the log skipping
into my shins. I love that I can feel the range of human emotion, to experience
joy and pain, laughter and tears, all of it.
In all circumstance, there is opportunity and something to
be learned. The act of love is the important part. In it, I find strength and
peace.
Strength, peace and love to all of you too.
