Out of the Doldrums

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After eighteen years of chronic illness, I developed any number of strategies to beat the blues.  When my ability to cope dropped near zero, I wanted an elevator with an H button for heaven.  Not having one at hand, I did the next best thing.  I went to bed for three days.  My model was Jesus in the grave three days and then, voila! Resurrection! On my three days I did nothing but eat, sleep, void, and watch funny movies.  I didn’t try to be nice or appropriate to anybody or do anything I didn’t want to.  I always got enough energy that way for my coping dial to turn up to a good six or seven for several more weeks.

But for days when I just have the blahs, I make ketchup.  After researching and trying several recipes, I’ve put together one that I’m quite fond of.  It’s simply called Nancy’s Ketchup Recipe.

On a bleak day towards the end of winter, I looked at the time and noticed it was almost two o’clock p.m.  I was still in my rose colored chenille robe with its cuffs tarnished from too many breakfasts and not enough washings—typical attire for miserable days.

Time to get going! Do something for god’s sake!

I mentally ran through a list of things I like to do, and making ketchup rose to the top.

Tomato juice…sweetener…arrowroot for thickening…the ingredients tumbled through my thoughts energizing me enough to get to the spice cupboard.

I arranged everything I needed and reached into the kettle cupboard to pull out my red Dutch oven, a spur of the moment buy-on-sale at Kohl’s some months before.

I wonder what’s on KUNR? (the public radio station.)

I pushed the power button on the kitchen boom box and went back to my self-prescribed, anti-depression ritual.  Classical melodies infiltrated my gray mood and brought some soothing tones into my heaviness as I began combining ingredients.  That done, I started the good part, the long, slow, aromatic task of keeping my brew from burning on medium high heat.

My robe redecorated itself with new blots and blotches of red as an assortment of bubbles burst releasing their yummy tomato smells.  I ignored the new stains.  I was in an altered state--stirring…smelling…humming…listening.

The male radio anchor began giving the history of the next piece, the Olympic Symphony by Panayoti Karousos with movements named after exotic Greek gods and goddesses, all of whom I’d been studying in my Ancient Literature group.  I smiled as the first piece sent its shivery notes down my back.  Wakefulness began to rise within me like yeast in fresh, warm dough. 

In this moment I am a mythological crone stirring my cauldron accompanied by ancient goddesses.  In me the sun has come out from behind the clouds.