Sometimes I feel a sadness come over me that can't be remedied and for no reason in particular. It's everywhere within me, spreading through my veins, slowing my breath—a culmination of all the losses, disappointments, hurt and a deep self-doubt that comes up more often than it doesn't.
It's a sadness that dissipates when I lose myself in convo with a hummingbird. Or sway gently, bare feet gripping into damp wood chips as I water my garden. The sadness is freed when I step outside, forehead lifted to the big, bright sun, sweat tears pouring down my self-cleaning skin. The sadness shakes loose when I move so deliberately, I release all other focus for a few seconds that - when I really let it all go - can stretch into a matter of glorious minutes, like hydroplaning reality. The sadness ebbs and flows when I listen to folk music as sweet, earthy incense curls into the night air. Or I light candles and write letters to my best friend who passed on. He told me once that the sadness is good, it's cleansing. I try to remember that when I feel like I need to push it away or replace it with a happier emotion.
The darker states make me feel like I should know better. I have "tools" to limit these low-energy experiences. Maybe I can tuck the tool box in the closet sometimes and let it be. Maybe I don't need to erase the sadness. It will lift when it's ready. It always does.
Something beautiful comes along and I can't help but smile.