Shedding the armor

Most of the leaves are gone but how beautiful is the autumn sky?

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And its muted light?

Not everyone will agree, I know.

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Even I would prefer it didn’t get dark quite so early.

And these days I am more bothered than usual by the cold, though not nearly as bothered as I am by summer’s heat.

If I had any sort of garden, no doubt I would miss my flowers over the winter months. However I am unable to tend to flowerbeds, thus very little grows.

Having so said…

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A couple of weeks ago I posted a picture of a late developing calendula, saying how sad that the bud would not get to bloom. Despite repeated frost and two days of snow it produced a flower that itself withstood very cold nights.

Seeing its bright little face was curiously uplifting.

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But I have no more control over what grows in my garden than I have over the sort of sky a day brings.

So I try to enjoy whatever I am given.

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A patch of blue visible through a break in the clouds.

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Or bright enough to penetrate the overcast.

Just knowing it’s there matters.

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Perhaps I should mention that no-one has ever accused me of being cheerful.

Travelling companions called me “Sobering Influence.” Half joking. I was not without a sense of humour. I saw myself as being down to earth. Sensible. Boring.

Well, someone had to keep us out of trouble, right?

Anyway, I was never overly cheerful and was inclined to view those who were with suspicion.

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Since those long ago days a lot has changed.

Unexpectedly, astonishingly, aged 70, I found lifelong depression falling away. It was like shedding a heavy coat of armor. So strange. I felt un-tethered, as if I might lift off. Gradually I began to discover who I was underneath, unrestrained by depression.

Still not irrepressibly cheerful! Still deeply cynical and pessimistic though I would more likely term the latter realistic.

But able now to see the light, even when it is but a glimmer.

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Just as even the longest journey begins with a single step, so too hope may generate from the tiniest pinprick of light if only we notice it.

How else do people survive the most horrendous suffering?

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It is not my intention to offer inspirational cliches, but having shed depression I write about it for the benefit of anyone who may find hope in my words.

For if you help but a single person, it is worthwhile. Other people’s stories helped me a great deal. Although we are all different, they gave me perspective and valuable food for thought.

In the days of darkest depression, three things kept me going. In my blackest mood, I still could conjure the faces of people I’d seen in my travels. Beggars, lepers, amputees living in gutters, people who literally scratched a living on garbage dumps. The list is long and acknowledging it made me feel worse, yet I had to acknowledge that my situation was envious by comparison. I owed it to those countless millions around the globe to be grateful for what I had purely through of an accident of birth.

Another thing that kept me going was the faint glimmer of hope that one day I might find some degree of happiness or that at the very least, my life would become less tedious.

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It was the many animals in my life that gave me hope. In them I found the unconditional love and comfort we all seek.

Growing up, although we didn’t have one, there always seemed to be cats around . I loved all animals and when I first came to America I lived for many years with dogs.

For several years, in Washington, I had rabbits that I cared for deeply.

There’s not one animal I have forgotten, even the strays I encountered as a child. Many of the memories are sad, but I don’t wish to ever let them go.

19th November 2003 was the day I said farewell to my dearly beloved Yeti.

I don’t even want to count the painful goodbyes there have been since. Each time I felt wrung out, but the love and joy all those animals gave me was worth the agony of their loss.

There is a whole separate story in this.

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One can never know where life will lead and in the end – at the end – very often you have very little control of your situation, so I have no illusions that I will necessarily skip happily off over the rainbow and I cannot promise to retain the ability to see the light. I only hope that I’ll be able to remember to appreciate the great good fortune I’ve had.

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