I am tired. I’m not just tired; I’m mentally drained. My eyes have steroid eye drops in them to hold back the irritation, keep them clear. My eyelids are twitching. Friday I fled work and the nervous gazes of my coworkers as they stared into my pink left eye. I went to the doctor’s office where I waited for someone to peer into the irritated eye and tell me what the hell was wrong with me. As I sat in the chair, with my laptop computer, bags, I kept on reading and reviewing proofs with puffy stabbing eyes.
I’m tired. I’m not just tired; I am emotional. I recently took on a new project in advance of my company’s annual conference. It seemed like a lot of extra work but it didn’t seem impossible. It’s not IMpossible. It’s just that I’m tired.
I made plans with a coworker, a friend, to meet with her girlfriends at an art opening tonight. We met up at the opening reception for En Foco, an exhibition of U.S. based photographers of Latin American, African, Asian and Native American heritage. I actually went to the wrong gallery and almost decided to just head home, hit the couch and finish off that bottle of red wine (that bottle of red wine that every woman has waiting for her). My friend convinced me it was worth it to turn around, head back up the street and see the show. (I was closer than I thought.)
She was right.
They had already walked through the hallway of photographs. I had missed the gallery talk. But as I looked at the photos on my own, I stopped and breathed and felt and just released the “day job” into the air.
Yes there’s more than this. Yes there’s other ways of seeing, experiencing, living. Yes, art is more important than anything else. Anything else. Yes we need to stop, breathe, and contemplate. Yes. I will be fine. Better than fine.
Go see En Foco (at OAS, 1889 F St., NW); go to the Smithsonian; go to the library; peek into the lobbies of law firms; notice public art displays. See something.