Fuzzy Brown Mope

I just want to say before beginning that it's extremely difficult to type with new-guitarist fingers. My right hand feels like it just got back from the dentist.

That said, today looks a lot different from yesterday. And it looks a lot different from the day before that. The last few days (and the last few posts, too) have been a little bleaker than I would like them to be.

True, I'm an aspiring writer, and writers in general have a rather gloomy reputation. Back when Dave first started to 'like' me, he did an impression for me that he called his 'writer face.' It started off with him just striking an intellectual pose and looking thoughtfully off into the distance. Then he amended it by trying to look more depressed. Writers are always depressed, he said.

I have to admit, he did remind me of someone. Even now, when I watch the video of his impression, I try to figure out whether he resembles a specific author, or just bears a general resemblance to all those dusty-looking fellows on book jackets.

Thing is, I never used to fit the writerly stereotypes. Not all the time, anyway. I had my highs and lows like anyone (any female anyone, anyway), but generally, the lows only lasted a few hours. Once a low stretches longer than a few weeks, it's worn out its welcome in a big way.

This last one wore out it's welcome. So, I tried to shake it. To do so I employed several different methods. Not neccessarily methods I thought were surefire, but things that had worked in the past to cure lesser blues. But none of my various little plans worked. In fact, they backfired, and made it worse. Basically, I used up what little emotional stamina I had left, and I was stuck being a negative, emotionally locked-down pile of goo.

Yes. Goo.

Then, something really obvious happened.

Someone other than me had a problem. She asked me to listen, and to give advice if I could. I couldn't, but I was concerned about her. I tried to cheer her up, and show her the bright side. Then someone else had a problem. I listened to her and then tried to cheer her up as well. Then another person had a problem, and another. It wasn't like any of the problems were things I could "solve" or "fix," or really do anything except just listen. Maybe recommend a book, or let them know that I once went through something similar, or knew someone who did, and everyone came out alive when it was over.

Next thing I know, I'm sitting here awake after a night of no sleep (which was very productive, I might add, for the newest novel-that-will-never-see-the-light-of-day that I'm working on), and I've just spent about half an hour churning out hymns on my husband's guitar (hymns that were equally painful to my fingers and my ears), and I've suddenly realized...I'm not a depressed writer anymore.

While I'm trying to figure out what went right, I remember being very young and listening to the Agape Land tapes.

If you've never heard them, you should. Everyone should.

Anyway, I suddenly was hearing a familiar old story in my head, about a rabbit who'd lost his joy in a sunless valley, and how two children took him back into the valley to find out where he lost it. As the rabbit and his friends went through the valley and saw all the hurting people that the rabbit had just hopped right past before, they stopped and tried to cheer up every person they saw--including my favorite creature, a dreary little guy the narrator described as a "fuzzy brown mope."

I thought the mope sounded cute.

Obviously, by the time the story ends, the rabbit gets his joy back, which is celebrated by a song all about how joy makes you hop up and down, etc.

It's kind of humbling to be twenty-some-odd years old and have to be reminded of the real source of joy by a singing bunny you first heard when you were three. But when I was three, I didn't understand the deeper issues behind the story: that focusing on self will only make you miserable, but in mourning with those who mourn and rejoicing with those who rejoice--esteeming them as better than yourself, like Philipians talks about--you find joy. Why? Probably, it's just a load off your soul to be turning outward instead of inward. We're always growing, and if we're growing in, of course it will hurt. Like ingrown toenails. I'm told they're excruciating. Yes. I believe that even ingrown toenails have a life application.

It's wonderful to see answers to the prayers I was praying--half-heartedly, I admit--regarding my gloomy, writerly funk. It's nice to have shaken the fuzzy brown mope. Like I said, he was my favorite character when I was a kid, but that was when he disappeared as soon as the happy little hopping song started.

Now, the happy hopping song can take weeks to come around. Unless of course I get some respite from self, self, self, and think about what I can do to encourage someone else who's getting too familiar with the fuzzy brown mope. The cuteness is deceitful. The truth of the story is that your joy doesn't come back when you start looking for it. It comes back when you help someone else find theirs.