I will need to weed the planters on the terrace, toss the dried weeds into the recyclable trash. All part of an illusion of normalcy. All above an underlying theme of angst, a perpetual percolation of anxiety. There is such a magnificent spring outside, seeping through the windows.
We allow the world in, for better or for worse. We must. Life is a participatory phenomena. To walk as a ghost on the parameters of existence just doesn't cut it. We need to be in the game, to make any sense of what it is we are doing here. If we make it a meditation then there needs to be a front line of analysis, somewhere the rubber meets the road. Better we are the one directing the motion, initiating the interaction, living the life that suits us best.
Not taking the bull by the horns, or the balls, or, as in Zen, as a gentle friend, lead by its ring... is a fundamental error. Yet choosing among the options, when cloaked in a trench coat of despair, is daunting for the depressed. The chicken to egg cycle, of impotence due to the blues, needs to be disrupted somehow. The old hen needs to be beheaded or the damn egg scrambled.
In someway an initiative followed by an ignition is called for... a fire under our procrastinating perplexity... A self-anointed rite of passage, out the door, and into the mix of things. Spring awaits, but only for one season. Summer sits simmering just around that pertruding bend up ahead. Best to pull weeds while we still have fingers.
Best to express what you are really thinking, what you really want to be doing... and then, do it.