Digging for Dandelions

For someone who has been living a pretty spectacular year, I sure do cry a lot.

There’s probably an aspect of guilt to that. And by probably, I mean absolutely yes. There is definitely, most certainly an aspect of guilt to that. But more to the point—I think the weight of my existential malaise has just gotten to a certain untenable point.  Hasn’t everyone’s, though? I know I’m not special in this regard. But the past few months, it’s just been uniquely difficult to carry—weighty, amorphous, and so very dark. It’s as if it’s been supersized and supercharged.

I’ve always had this dream of providing the citizens of this world with a way to cope with their own brand of darkness—in 2017, back when anything seemed possible, I coined the phrase “making inspired fun” as my credo. Though it was birthed from an incredibly naive brain, I still stand by this concept, now more than ever.

Buckle up, we’re going to travel in cliche for a moment. My talking (and talking and talking and damned incessant talking) needs to turn into walking. I don’t know who said it, or when they said it, but there’s that old adage about the people who are constantly talking about “their Thing” aren’t doing the Thing—you know what I mean? The long and short of it: if you’re well and truly in the weeds, there’s no room for those kinds of idle musings.

I guess it’s time to dig for dandelions, darlings.