Melancholy Alley

As a kid growing up in South Sacramento, I loved exploring alleys. I guess because they aroused my sense of curiosity. What were they for? Where did they lead to? What would I find in them if I entered and followed them? Gee, what a great place to build a kids hideout or maybe even a fort!

My grandmothers house sat just three doors away from one. My childhood home on Phyllis Avenue had one right behind the back fence (all right, technically, that one was a utility company right-of-way easement). Spent plenty of time playing in and exploring them both with my brothers and neighborhood kids.

That was all fifty plus years ago.

Recently, I have found myself traveling  what I consider a different kind of alley. My name for it is Melancholy Alley. A lane that runs roughly parallel to the path that I wish to travel but not very inviting. Mostly empty other than a few rubbish cans here and there along the way. As I walk by each, I chance to quickly peer into the top of those without lids. Rather than trash, what seems to be stuffed in each are old memories, a few regrets, and the odd box containing that great guilt inciting title; “if only you had done this instead.”

In my minds eye, I see myself walking this alley several times each week, slowing my pace to glance at what lies in each of the cans and receptacles along the way. The colors and light that would normally enliven and enrich the scenery are muted. Washed out and without vibrancy. If any of you ever saw the Denzel Washington movie, The Book of Eli, that is the kind of washed out color look that I am talking about. 

I feel like I have become an observer of my life rather than a participant. Engagement has become replaced by detachment. Separation. As if someone pulled the plug on me and overlooked plugging me back in.

 “I don’t want to do anything today. Maybe spend the whole day just napping. Go to work, come home, keep the drapes drawn, stay indoors. All prior outdoor projects and household fix-it tasks no longer hold an interest or priority. I am de-energized.”

The  vitality is missing. I want it back. Let me be 100% present once more.

The grief counselors and psychologists call it mourning, depression or lethargy. Struggling with the aftermath of the death of someone close. No shit. Three as a matter of fact. First, mom Dodson, then my mother-in-law, then pop Dodson. All within the past nine months. 

So this afternoon, I put it down in words; what these feelings, emotions and imagery have been like. 

This is not the kind of blog posting I originally intended for this web site. 

Up to now, I have been all about providing caregiving information for dementia folks and positive, educational books about  spirituality, compassion and how amazing and courageous we humans can be.

I look upon this particular essay as a one-time sharing exercise and hopefully, a personal exorcism of a mild lethargic depression that seems to have clogged up and slowed down my polished, well-oiled writing machinery.

Do not feel or sense alarm for this writer. This is something we all must work through in our own way. No one else can bear the yoke of this wagon for us. I will emerge on the other side none the worse for wear, stronger and more resilient that I was once before. 

A loving and devoted family helps. 

A loving and devoted wife is even better and who does not realize that she is my ace-in-the-hole card. She, in addition to a nearly four month old granddaughter who is as cuddlesome and sweet as they come. Two feminine personalities with spirits that trump all negativity. My wife came factory-equipped with her own gossamer wings firmly attached. Granddaughter shows the tell-tail signs too with two little nubbies under the skin and behind her shoulders. Call ‘em wing buds.

It is uplifting and so true about what the wise old sage once said: “No storm lasts forever.”

I am close to stepping out of my Melancholy Alley. I found an unlocked gate and a path between two buildings leading out to a busy and bright sunlight lit street

Jeff Dodson

November 9th 2013