The elevator and the candle

I made it through Christmas just fine. But sometime in the days afterward, a funk snuck up on me. The best visual to describe the emotional sinkhole I've gone into would be a mine shaft elevator. Somehow I descended from serenity and calm happiness into a sorrow so deep that the strongest urge I feel is to just shut down and shut out everything, even the light. I'm finding myself leaning back on an old remedy: Find one thing every day to be happy with, and somehow that day will go by OK. It doesn't have to be a big thing. It can be the print a leaf leaves on the sidewalk after a rain. It can be something silly and charming, like the the word "tacky," which is such a singularly human construct that the word always makes me appreciate my species. It can be seeing my fiance cheer at a football game or my cat stretch in front of the fire, or getting a friend's writing to look over, or watching a dog run zany circles in the park across the street. I wait for these things, and they get me by. I know from times before when I played this game that it works. These little talismans light my way to each new sunrise until steady cheer dawns in me again. The trick is to avoid wondering when that will be. I've got a story due in 17 days, so that ought to keep me occupied.