the spring thaw
Spring is here, or just about.
It feels odd to write that when so many parts of the country are dealing with snow drifts and below-freezing temperatures, but here in Seattle, it’s warm enough that I’ve put away my winter coat. All over my neighborhood, trees are blooming with little pink flowers. Magnolias, I think, though I’m not quite sure. There are daffodils blooming in the traffic circle up the street, and a little hand-painted sign asking people not to pick them. It feels like the world is waking up around me.
And I am waking up, too.
In her amazing song “After All,” Dar Williams says of depression:
It felt like a winter machine
That you go through and then
You catch your breath and winter starts again
And everyone else is spring bound
In the depths of major depression, I’m tired and numb. All I want to do is close my eyes, drift to sleep, and never wake up. But, like Robert Frost said, I have promises to keep. So instead I keep trudging forward, one step at a time, so blinded by the snow that I can’t even see where I’m going.
It’s been a long, cold winter. As usual, it lasted for about two years. After so many cycles of depression, though, I’ve learned to trust that spring will always, eventually return. It’s taken a few months of therapy and some fiddling with my medication, but at last I am feeling the thaw. That my inner spring has coincided with the outer one is probably a coincidence, but a welcome one.
For about three years now, I’ve held onto this domain while my blog sat more-or-less abandoned. I’ve been wanting to start it up again, though, and my counselor thinks it’s a good idea. I started this blog with a goal of documenting my quest to live a whole and authentic life, while at the same time celebrating the many signposts (including the amazing books I’ve read) that have pointed me forward in my journey. Now that I am re-focusing on those priorities, it makes sense to start blogging again.