why I write sometimes about being sad

I'm feeling Peace, again, of the 'mostly' kind. It's a welcome feeling. It's kind of fluid, kind of wobbly, mostly kind of nice.

This is what it looks like
I think.

It looks a little bit like acceptance. Like letting life Be.
Because life keeps on Being, doesn't it? No matter what.
It Be's and Be's and Be's. And before you know it, you're Being along with it. You can't help yourself. Life's like a jig you hear—you can't help but tap your feet.

'Mostly Peace' moves, with moods that shift like the wind. A gloomy, gusty wind, sometimes. Other times, a low breeze, calm and soothing. Wind over lake water, bringing the morning calls of birds. Sometimes it brings rain—majestic, maybe, or thunderous. Sometimes it's a rain to dance to. Sometimes, it's just rain.

'Mostly Peace' looks like

looking around. And noticing

all the love that's here, in the room and outside it.

There's a whole lot of love, I've noticed. How beautiful that is to see.


'Mostly Peace' isn't 'All-the-way-through Peace.' I'd be lying if I said, 'Hey! All I see is sun!'

Because I think I've come to realise something very important.

Depression, that mysterious thing—the thing that can topple a person, bring them to their knees—the thing that sometimes (maybe even Often, or Usually) you get to leave far behind—is a part of me. As much as any other part of me might be.

I used to be so afraid of that. I have been as afraid of being sad as someone might be of shark attacks or spiders or bears.

I believed that sadness, suffering a pervasive, often inexplicable sadness some days, and succumbing to it some days, meant I'd failed. I'd failed at being Normal. At being happy. At Life.

But that's not possible.

Because look: I am here. Aren't I?

Living it.

I get out of bed, almost every single day. I cook, I eat, I talk, I laugh, most of the time. I love my children to the ends of the earth, all of the time. I love with all my heart. Faithfully and foolishly. Giddily and always. This much and this big.

I walk my dog and don't walk my dog. I weep and I don't weep. I feel hollowed out and devastated and then I don't.

And still: I am here.

Even on the hardest days.



And in this moment, I want to explain why I write about this thing called Depression.

This thing that is Being Sad.


I write about it because

living, truly living,

matters so much to me.


I write about it
because I think,
If even one person reads this and feels less alone or hollow, then my words have done something
good.

I write about it
because there are lots of us.
If you close your eyes and feel the threads of us, here we are—a translucent web, connected. Truly, you and I are not alone.

I write about it,
because what I care most about, and believe is possible

is the getting UP.

Finding the joy.


I write about that often, don't I?


More than that—I write how I find it.

Sometimes it's in something as simple as stirring porridge. Sometimes it takes a beach and a dog and holding hands with someone small. Sometimes it's hearing a bird call or seeing how light moves through a leaf, altering it. Sometimes it's in a movie, or a moment on the couch with your hands around a cup of tea. Or in talking to people you love, or sharing a meal, or getting a hug just when you need it most.

Joy is there. It's always there, waiting.


I write about looking UP.
Because I have spent months sometimes, looking down. Look up, I tell myself. I say it and say it. Look up, if you can. Even if it's only a little. Look up.


And I write about living

as much and as big as I can,

even if some days the Big is kind of small.
Even if all I have inside are small steps.

Those are wonderful. Those steps can be the most important ones you take.


I write about it all because I am so very glad for This.

This Peace, and Mostly Peace, and Elusive Peace, and the Peace that comes and surprises me just when I think I might never see it again. It's waiting there,
a lot like Joy.

I think sometimes they sit together, you know? Peace and Joy. Like two old men at the bus stop. Just waiting for you to pass by, and pick them up.



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