Monday, August 14, 2017

This is the point of summer where I catch myself staring at leaves on the trees, thinking their season(s) are almost done. They'll drop and drift and come to earth again. Next spring I will give the same stare to newness on branch, envision their warmer days ahead. All they will see and go through. It's hard not to personify them, to admire this act of temporary life as bravery. Cyclical, incredible. All the sun, storms, and quiet. Another change is coming because it is our only constant.

Over the past few weeks I've taken part in wonderful conversations, a natural unraveling. Unexpected yet exactly what I ended up needing. All of the listening helped me reach out when I needed to(also a point in which I least wanted to). I can be extremely open but there are some things I keep for me--call it shame or uncertainty, privacy, whatever. It's not that I am ashamed to wrestle with depression now and then. At least I'd like to truly believe it isn't shame, but maybe. Maybe I'm not as accepting with my own stuff. In any event, when I struggle I get private until danger permeates the quiet--the molehill once harbored in my shadow is hulked into mountain which learns to bend me into it's dark. At this point in my life I can feel it coming. Animals and impending natural disaster. Something about depression has taught me to sense shift in environment.

Because I reached out, I'm doing much better. Nothing rusted. I had stuttered along with my writing until that comfort ceased altogether, but she's purred right back up and it is good. There is a list. Things to be done, plans I am making. There are hopeful things, despite the feeling of this world falling apart on a loop. I must read current events in small doses. Same goes for most people I know here--all of us a bit bewildered, shell-shocked, angry, trying.

At night I like to walk outside because there is a chill more often now. That and crickets, and an inky sky to stare up at, all that space junk I cannot see and stars I cannot name. The leaves on trees sound like hurrying fabric in the dark. My breath is my anchor. I take my moment and I keep on going.

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