There comes a point in every year when, really, it’s all a bit too much. Too much anger, and tumult and bluster, too much heartache and putting up with. There’s even times when there’s too much wine and comfort food to help forget, too much gallows humor with its look-over-your-shoulder nervous laughter, and yes, though we are out of practice, too much retail therapy. There’s simply a time when there’s just too, much, much.
And that’s the land we inhabit right now; we’re here. We desperately need a break from each other, from our brains and the saturated culture and the multi-mediumed, well-meaning messages from a savvy and well-meaning president. There is no easy fix for our overdose except a reduction in stimuli and the fullness of time. If this were France, it would be August and we’d all take a nice long holiday in the country, baking in the purgatorial luxury that is a 4.3-week annual vacation.
In the absence of the purifying high noon of a French August, May is prime time to get away. You and every one of your peers need room for quiet contemplation without the weight of thought. Put as much infinity between you and your cares as you can. The universe will cooperate and provide a few handy gaps to get lost in. But even without the cosmic assist, most of us would do best to be scarce or at least otherwise committed to some type of convalescence when optional burdens come a calling– especially when they are temptingly dressed in tragedy de jours’ clothes.
Take advantage of this deeply self-preservation moment. Drop out of sight for a while to a dreamless sleep so that you may wake refreshed in time for June’s doubtless rigors.