So muses Melville’s Ishmael:
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth, whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.” (Moby Dick, chapter 1)
In our own drizzly November souls, where go we when the sea is no option?
5 thoughts on “A Drizzly November Soul”
Not a comment so much on this particular post; just generally that I am glad you are posting so often. As always, I enjoy your writing.
Here’s something else: a warning – if you don’t want an outburst of laughter during your Sunday morning service, don’t tell a joke to a blond on Saturday night.
No longer blond myself – gray-white so I’m allowed to tell you these things.
Are you saying, then, that it takes a blond about 12 hours to get a joke? I thought the average was much longer. And, sorry to tell you, but once a blond, always a blond.
You should be glad I still consider you a dear friend. 🙂
I’ve made it through many difficult moments in life by going to the sea. It’s where I go. There between land and sea I meditate and communicate with the creator. Somehow the experience helps me to gain perspective and inspiration.
Where would I go if the sea were not on option? I suppose I’d find a magnificent tree to sit under, or a bench near the river. If those were not an option, I’d most likely find a quaint little coffee shop.
I know one… 😉
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