It was a week of funk, I'd say.
I needed a different perspective.
Driving down and taking a class shook some of the webs away, but the oppressive film still clung.
Making pasta helped; so soothing, starting with the volcano ring of flour with the lava of eggs in the middle, beating and gathering with my mother's favorite little fork. Kneading it all up into a smooth ball, letting it rest. Then rolling it out; finally cutting it with my little pasta cranking machine. Then hung up to dry on a dowel.
Sometimes, it's just one day, one step.
Physical activity can sometimes take over; then I can get into the rhythm of the doing, rather than the worry and doubt.
Plus, I made dinner out of all of it . . . so there's that aspect.