I wrote last week about a day in the life of depression. The response to my post was tender, warm and in part, concerned. Thank you to everyone who sent hugs and questions and to those who shared their own struggles. I wrote the post to illuminate the mysteries of depression. To help others understand. And to hopefully help others who suffer from depression as I do.

Depression obviously sucks. But if I have to deal with it, which apparently I do,  I’d rather have the experience which allows me to deal with it effectively. Because I’ve had the disease for about 20 years, I understand it and the way it works. I can now see it trying to sneak up on me. I can see it lingering in the dark, and then trying to pull the shadows over my way.

In a comment on my post, Big Little Wolf asked, “Perhaps the followup question is how to claw one’s way back.” Indeed.

When I finally realized I was depressed, I started the tough work of clawing my way back. My first stop? A therapist. I found the process of finding a therapist exhausting. I decided to interview therapists until I found the right fit. I had no idea when I started how tough this process would be. You see, I am a very private person (you might be surprised to learn this since I frequently splay myself all over this page, but I am). And each time I met with a potential therapist, I had to tell my story. I can now see the catharsis in the process; at the time, however, it was grueling.  This exhaustive process was well worth-it; I found Dr. G. I spent many hours with my dear  psychiatrist. She provided the perfect mixture of care, neutrality and talent.

At our first meeting, Dr. G said, “You’re depressed.” Since that meeting over 15 years ago, I’ve taken antidepressants. At first I resisted taking the meds. I believed my need for the medication highlighted my failure; even last year I still felt this. Once I clawed through that murky mess, I realized that the opposite was true. I found strength in my decision and profound power in antidepressants. With them, I function. Without them, I don’t.

In my early years, the combination of talk therapy and careful medication titration were my salves.

The next step on my recovery came many years later when I took the shackles off of my story. Slowly, I started sharing my life’s experience with depression. If you’d have told me when I was 23 that I’d not only talk about my depression, but write about it in a public forum, I’d have laughed you out of the room. But I now know that sharing helps me heal. I believe it helps us all heal.

Now, I have many, many good days. . Yes, depression (and it’s side-kick, anxiety) are still are part of my life. But because I’m a seasoned pro, I understand what I need to do:

I talk whenever I need to and plumb the inside of any emotion. Just the simple act of saying, “I’m sad” brings light into those darker spots.

I take antidepressants.

I exercise. Studies have proven that exercise is a viable, powerful tool in alleviating depressive symptoms. Boy howdy does it. I crave the effect exercise has on my well-being and brain.

I soak up the sun. A friend recently told me that in the winter, she follows her cat around the house because she knows her cat will lead her to the sunshine. Earlier this week, I found myself wedged between the couch and the back door because I found a warm ray of sun there. I crawled in and let the sun work its magic.

Thank you to everyone who reached out after reading my last post. Thank you to those who shared your own stories. To all of us, and to all of our struggles and triumphs. Thank you.

Complicit in its agreement, my stomach tightened, pulsed and churned.

It was a random Wednesday night. I lay in bed, staring through the window that returned only darkness. As my depressive, inky thoughts began their downward spiral, they recruited my heart, veins and breath to continue the suffocating, manical dance. My chest banged and echoed with a tympanic drum beat, rousing the dormant anxiety throughout.

Everyone is better than me. God do I suck. What the fuck do I get done in a day? Everyone else gets so much more done–essays written, shelves dusted, time volunteered, promotions accomplished, memoirs completed, situations mitigated, emails read AND responded to. I suck. I don’t give my kids enough and I should be doing more for them and why can’t I even get a meal plan together?

Depression.

I consider self-flagellation and moody, bad days normal. Everyone feels this way at some point in their life. Sometimes for many long days. Because, of course, sometimes life is rotten. For me, depression picks up the slack where a normal bad day might usually end. I don’t, I can’t, snap out of it. Or, in other instances, my life might be amazingly peachy and depression will step up to slap me around. I think, perhaps, this is the most agonizing aspect of the disease.

Depression renders flat an otherwise full, rich life. Depression sinks its fangs into delights and wonders of delectable moments. Depression renders gratitude null and void. Depression takes a granule of routine self-doubt or recrimination and maneuvers it into a personal anthem–a powerful, damning dogma. This last bit is truly critical to the understanding of depression. When depressed, no amount of logical maneuvering or mental canoodling changes the fact that I am  depressed.

Depression litters normal conversation with secret, buried landmines which await the smallest infraction to detonate.

What did you do today?

These benign comments seem like depression’s co-conspirators, poised to further push me down the continuing spiral of self-loathing. My mind hears something else entirely. My listens through a veil of depression:

She can see that I didn’t do anything of substance today. Everyone can see that I’m not efficient and that I really don’t add anything of substance. They all see me for what I am–a skimmer, coasting from one thing to the next. 

Ultimately, this is how depression works its maniacle machinations on me: it makes me believe in a truth that isn’t, but feels otherwise. The depressed truth is very, very real. These tenets of  my depression gripped me for years and are so powerful that even today, they continue to attempt to dictate. Now, at least, I can quickly recognize the disease and its vaporous inclinations.

That night, when the inky thoughts infiltrated, my knee-jerk response was to wallow, tense and rail against the depression. Why now? Go away. Fuck Off. I did that for awhile and then,

I breathed. And then exhaled.

I pondered.

I gave light to the dark spaces.

I’ve learned from yoga that you can’t tense a muscle while you’re stretching it. I’ve learned that I must relax the muscle to take care of it, to bring it light and oxygen. I believe that my depression is much like that tense, dark muscle. I try to relax into it and give it light. Then, I keep moving. It’s not easy. Many days this proves to be really fucking hard–and I believe, with a burning intensity that I really do suck. But I continue to practice and I get better.

********

About a year ago, a dear friend, who has never suffered from depression, asked me what it is like to live with depression. When she asked me, I was in a depression and wasn’t able to answer her question with any clarity. Her question is a good one, and one that has echoed in my thought chamber for some time. This post responds to her thoughtful question.

The red berries sat snugly on the holly branch. Each holly leaf punctured the air with their lush green, prickly points. Birds dashed in and about the trees, perhaps in anticipation of Spring. Sunlight spilled into the classroom and dappled the industrial grade carpet. Each ray of light danced in the soundless, distilled space; dust motes rallied.

I sat in the empty classroom, awaiting my appointment, and stared out the window. My heart didn’t seem to understand that I was sitting quietly in a chair–instead, it clamored to jump out of my chest as if I’d just ran four miles. I breathed and tried to simultaneously feel the pulsing emotion and quiet its anxious beat.

The school nurse entered, smiling. I smiled in return. She sat and we began. I handed over my registration form which I’d carefully filled in two nights ago. Vaccinations current? Check. Paper work complete? Check. Proof of residency? Check.

I watched quietly as she double-checked Henry’s vaccination record. My eyes scanned the paper and noticed  each scrawled date, each notation indicating of the site of each shot. I remembered the bluest eyes welling with tears with each of those notated shots. I remembered the chubbiest cheeks shining as they caught each tear.

The nurse shuffled the papers and thanked me for coming. We both smiled again.When I stood, Henry was registered for Kindergarten. KINDERGARTEN.

:::

This morning, I awoke with a start. Early morning light filtered in through my bedroom window. The bare tree branches softly held the evidence of early morning sun. I padded out of my room so as not to awake Hubby. The house slept; Abby and Henry slept. I descended each hardwood stair into the morning which awaited me. I donned my ankle-length, baby blue parka (which I lovingly refer to as my floor-length sleeping bag), and opened the garage doors. My faithful down parka and my pajamas , still warm and wrinkled with sleep, kept me snug as the winter chill tugged at my ankles.

I dragged the first of the recycling bins down the driveway. At that same time, my across-the-street neighbor did the same.

Good morning, he greeted.

Morning! I returned.

How are the kids? he queried.

So good, I replied. How are you guys surviving the boys’ senior year? 

Chase finished one college interview yesterday, and the other two boys finished their interviews last week. We have early acceptance at two universities and awaiting an answer from another, he said, with hints of pride and terror puffing ever-so-slightly from his chest.

Wow I replied. Congratulations.

I turned and walked back toward the house. I think I may have been sprinting, unconsciously wanting to get back to a life that didn’t include college essays and  interviews.

It all happens in an instant, the masses tell me. You blink and years are gone. College and Kindergarten are here, living right across the street from each other. Some indications of time’s inexorable passage are subtle–the first dry nighttime diaper, the first wiggly tooth, the first solo play date. Those firsts begin to blurr with lasts: the last white, cotton onesie, the last nighttime snuggle, the last mom-can-cure-all hug. Others rage more obviously.

The entire summer before Abby started Kindergarten, I was a mess. The first time I tried to buy her school supplies, I had to leave Target because I couldn’t see the list through my curtain of tears. I am walking this cobbled road of emotion once again, where tears and emotional surges trip me and catch me unaware. You’d think I’d be prepared after going through  this with Abby. I’m not.

When I came back into the house after toting down the recycling, Henry was calling down the stairs.

Mommy, whewre is my favowite bwue sweatshiwrt?

In the dryer, I answered.

I looked there, but I couldn’t find it, he vollied.

I went back up the hardwood stairs and into the laundry room. I kneeled and opened the dryer door, then pulled Henry’s coveted blue, hoody sweatshirt from the dryer. With his blue cargo pants swishing, Henry walked closer. I pulled his sweatshirt over his crazy, bed-head hair and onto his white, smooth chest. His blond hair stood on end from the static electricity. My heart stood on end from the surge of raw love that threatened to undo me.

The morning light poured in through the laundry room window and enveloped us as we hugged.

My feet pounded the tread mill and the music pulsed in my ears.  My feet moved and my armed pumped and my breaths quickened.  I knew that soon it would come; I waited for the flatline, the uninterrupted bliss of not thinking. My body and breath partnered–my arms, legs and exhales partnered in a guttural, syncopatic rhythm. Pump pump pump exhale.  And then, a vast plane of nothing.

After I finished my run, I headed downstairs to the weight room. My creaky knees protested with each descending step. The black mat hit the floor. Thwop. I felt the tightness throughout each crevice and crannie of my body. I folded down into Downward Dog. I felt my pulse in my finger tips. I sat down, legs sprawled on the cushy mat and folded down, holding the stretch. Each muscle tightened and burned. Hello! my body seemed to say, Pay attention here. There’s a message here in this hamstring, over there in your side and right there between your shoulder blades. 

I breathed and released into the stretch.

I considered the stories and thoughts buried within my muscles. I moved into Pigeon and I wondered about the events and stories that build and maintain those knots. What beliefs reign those pockets of tension, tightening them with white-knuckled force?  The memories. The pain. The tension. The self-doubt. All locked within. My body acted as its own locksmith by providing panaceas of stretches and rudimentary keys of understanding with each exhale.

I stood. Calmer, more aware and grounded. I took the steps back up and continued unlocking. Pad locks, car doors, house doors. I walked back into it all.

“Mommy, can I help you squeeze the lemons?!?!”

“Sure.”

Henry excitedly said, “Mommy, can I pwease have a wemon I can cut?”

“Sure, H, sure. Go wash your hands.”

So, Abby squeezed lemons and Henry cut his lemon half in preparation for eating. He used a table knife. Suddenly he yelled, “I cut mysewlf!” Boy howdy did he. With a table knife, he sliced right into his sweet, plump finger. Blood drip, drip, dripping. Henry is fairly stoic, but this cut freaked him out. So I mothered, cleaned, washed, bandaged, wiped tears. Rebandaged.

Then we ate. Abby frantically shoveled in her favorite meal before leaving for a school event. Henry, wearing his favorite silly monster pajamas (which are beginning to seem ill-fated), wasn’t hungry. His finger huwrt. He retired to the couch and covered up in the family-favorite fleece sherpa blanket. I finished furiously cleaning the kitchen and Abby left. The house fell silent.

“Henry?”

No answer. I found him on the couch, half-way to sleep under the heavy blanket. His blond hair was already bed-heady and his cheeks were flushed with sleep. It was only 6:30 pm. He wakened slightly, enough to ask me if I remembered the time we had caterpillars that turned into butterflies, which we released into the skwy. Then he mused that the butterflies were probably dead now.

As I perched on the side of couch, I rubbed his head in that way that a devotee rubs a worn talisman or good luck charm. I hoped by physically handling the brief moment that I could indelibly brand it to memory before the inexorable sweep of the second hand took it away. I offered Henry a cozy bed and an endless basket of bedtime books. He raised his arms, silently asking for a ride upstairs. I abliged.

The house sat silently, the padding of my wool clogs the only exception. Henry’s raspy voice broke the quiet as he chattered about his fingwer and how well the advil was wuhking. He held the offending finger high, like a beacon to the sky. I carried all 42 pounds of him up the stairs.

We entered the dark bathroom and stopped. His fuzzy monster jammies, which have glow-in-the-dark stars, faintly lit our space with their luminescent glow. We stood in the dark, heads together, gazing at our private garden of stars. The combined concoction of warmth, peace and Henry’s intoxicating scent kept me still. I stood, with Henry in my arms. We rested forehead to forehead and soul to soul.

We finally climbed under flannel sheets and I read. Henry nestled tightly next to me and our breaths existed as one. I made it halfway through the Velveteen Rabbit and stopped. Henry slept. The night light, like an evening sentry, cast its own soft, watchful halo across Henry’s cheeks. Oh those cheeks. And those lashes, resting just above. I stared. I stayed.

As I padded back out of his room, the coldness of the house slowly enveloped me. I turned back, took one last look and finally closed the door. I know that these fleeting moments…flee. Being able to fully experience them sits intrinsically in knowing I’ll never be able to replicate them again. It kills me that I can’t anticipate when an everyday occurrence will suddenly become a last.

The last incorrectly spoken word.

The last time I can easily carry his solid body up the stairs.

The last time he thinks I hung the moon in the sky, just for him.

The last time we star gaze together.

Lasts.

Today, I indelibly imprinted the following: the scent of lemons, a throbbing fingwer, glowy stars and a sleepy body, close to mine, not knowing when they will slip away into the past. My anticipation of the lasts may indeed crack my heart open, exposing a vast plane of apprehension and appreciation. Perhaps it is this inky awareness that provides the very canvas by which I can distill these moments into my soul. A dark canvas which beautifully exhibits the tenuous relationship between remembering and being. Between darks and lights.

****

A repost from almost exactly one year ago. 

Now, her eyes are mostly closed as she rests, preparing to leave. She opens her eyes long enough to connect with her husband, her children and grandchildren, pouring her love into them. Giving them one more, and perhaps one last, dose of her unconditional love.

Maureen is dying.

She’s the type of woman whom once you meet, you just want to sit with her, talk to her and bask in her. I consider myself blessed to have done just that, many times. I remember an intimate dinner at her and her husband’s home and my mind reverberates with echoing clinks of wine glasses, laughter and meaningful conversation.

I remember a black tie event Hubby and I attended with dear friends, and Maureen was among them. As usual, I fell into a deep talk with her.  Luckily, a friend took this photo while we chatted. I will always cherish it as it encapsulates Maureen. Loving. Connected. Supportive. True.

I remember her toast at Hubby’s and my wedding. I can see her full smile perched just above her champagne flute; I see her Irish eyes dancing along with her joyous  words.

I’ve thought of Maureen and her family constantly the last three days. Many times I’ve found myself crying. My memories entwine with my prayers for their peace and comfort.

Mixed in my mirage of thoughts, is, for some reason, an image from a hike I took with the kids last summer. On this hike, we always stop at a beautiful pond. Abby and Henry gathered stones (as they always do) and threw them into the pond. The sound of the stone breaking the pond’s calm surface was distinct. Then, we stood and witnessed the ripples on the water.

Maureen’s legacies are innumerable, just like the vast-reaching ripples on a pond.  Maureen has a husband and together, they have three children and four grandchildren. Years ago, her youngest son, Mick,  dated one of my dearest friends, Meg. 12 years ago, at a Halloween party in Northern Michigan (Up North as the regulars call it), Mick and Meg introduced me to my future husband. If it weren’t for them, I doubt I’d ever have met Hubby. If I hadn’t met Hubby,  the Love of my Life? Well, I’d prefer not to consider this alternate reality.

I know that Maureen’s life had a hand in mine. Without the random (or not so random?) course of these computations and ripples,  not only would I not have met my husband, but I never would have experienced my children or that moment at the pond.

Eventually, of course, the water stopped coursing. Naturally, the water returned to its original calm, tranquil state as the rock nestled into the thick, organic mud of the pond floor.

Although Maureen’s breath is fading, the effects of her life are forever lodged into the hearts and conscience of all lucky enough to have known and loved her. When she leaves us, a chasm will be left in her wake.

***

“To live in this world,

You must be able

to do three things;

to love what is mortal

to hold it 

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.”

-Mary Oliver

Maureen let go this morning. I am still trying to let her go.

]]> http://universalgrit.wordpress.com/2012/01/06/maureen/feed/ 11 universalgrit 2012-01-04 12.06.19 269 2012-01-04 12.10.34 http://universalgrit.wordpress.com/2011/12/31/an-ordinary-new-year/ http://universalgrit.wordpress.com/2011/12/31/an-ordinary-new-year/#comments Sat, 31 Dec 2011 21:35:31 +0000 universalgrit http://universalgrit.wordpress.com/?p=260 ]]> With the holidays and New Year’s upon me, I feel the urge to encapsulate. It’s no surprise, really, given the propensity of our culture to summarize (140 characters anyone?) and reflect, especially this time of year. I think reflection is wonderful–one of the most powerful ways to navigate and learn–really, truly, learn.

I feel as if I can smell the departure of 2011. Giant hands of time lower to snuff out another calendar year, leaving the scent of recently truncated time in its path. Gray smoke of days-past encircles me and I’m straddling two years. I feel like I’m here and there yet know I can only be Now.

I sit in conflict with the concept of reflection and the concept of being present. Just being, right here, is equally important. I juggle between these two desires: to gain insight and to just live. It takes a delicate mix, with a pinch of each, to achieve the right formula. Although I’m heeding the siren’s call to reflect on 2011 and the upcoming 2012, I’m also trying desperately (ironic, I know) to enjoy ordinary, average days. The kind where just the sun shining and the ticking off of items on my To Do list fill me with unparalleled joy and accomplishment.

A few days ago the list was lengthy. Blood work. Check. Recycling center. Check. McDonald’s Diet Coke and french fries, Check. Park, library. Get Abby her own library card. Check, check, check. Pay enormously huge late fee for book found in mud room, in a brown paper sack. Check.

Despite the methodical nature of the day, it provided much unanticipated joy. My kids were cranky at some points in this average day, and I was, too. This wasn’t a magical day, at least not by traditional standards. It was a day of no expectation, a day of contented togetherness.

While at the park, the late afternoon sky took my breath:

And this pattern beneath my feet grounded me, a talisman of the moment:

***

As I write, I honor the flow of this particular day. Henry rocks in the yellow, stuffed rocking in my office. The wooden runners of the chair connect loudly with the hardwood floors. I squelch the urge to quiet him. My fingers hit the keys of my lap top, clicking a staccato rhythm to Henry’s rocking. The 70-year-old faded quilt, hung over the chair’s back, sways quickly, blurring its pale colors. One day, that chair, where I nursed babies and myself, will sit empty. Down the hall, Abby is running a bath while signing the Who’s Christmas song from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Henry joined her, as he rocks.

I’m reminded of a passage from Katrina Kenison’s gorgeous memoir, The Gift of an Ordinary Day, 

This, I realize, is what I’ve wanted all along: to be more attentive, to honor the flow of days, the passing of time, the richness of everyday life.

The richness lives in each day, whether I choose to hold it or not. My hope for 2012 is this: average days. I would covet a series of ordinary moments, strung together like worn, well-loved, ancient quilt squares.  Where I proceed slowly enough to touch the holy:

The unexpected warmth of a December afternoon, spent with my children, eating dark chocolate truffles at the park.

The brilliance of children’s laughter, bounding off of slides and chasing the already-gone paths of my children.

The awareness to know what fills me up and the wisdom to stop long enough to refuel. I want to repeatedly topple over with grace and thanks, brimming with gratitude.

***

On our way home from the library the other day, we drove home on a wonderfully curvy, treed road. As we descended one of the curves, a resplendent, orange sunset greeted us. Black trunked trees were silhouetted against the  sunset’s gilded hues. It was so stunning that I pulled over to the side of the road and pressed the hazard button.

“Mommy, what are you doiwg?”, asked Henry.

“Look. Just look at the sunset guys. Look at the way the orange light tips the barren tree trunks”, I replied.

“You’re going to take a picture, right, Mom?” Abby asked, with just a touch of sarcasm.

Quotidian, holy moments abound.

]]> http://universalgrit.wordpress.com/2011/12/31/an-ordinary-new-year/feed/ 6 universalgrit 2011-12-30 15.26.31 2011-12-30 15.31.03 2011-12-30 16.29.57 http://universalgrit.wordpress.com/2011/12/25/blessings/ http://universalgrit.wordpress.com/2011/12/25/blessings/#comments Sun, 25 Dec 2011 07:00:33 +0000 universalgrit http://universalgrit.wordpress.com/?p=250 ]]> Stopping. Seeing. Absorbing.

After washing some dishes recently, I glanced at my paper whites, pushing through the rich soil, tenacious as always.

Those life-giving drops of water mesmerized me.

*

Hands at work. The amazing thing about this particular activity is that I let the mess be. I didn’t try to clean us out of the moment–I let the floured-covered work surface, sprinkles and colored sugar just be. I stayed right there. The urge to clean-tidy-and-whizz-about tried to take over. But I gave it a swift kick–I stopped and appreciated the creativity of my children and the momentary suspension of chaos.

*

Shadows.

*

“We set the pace.

But this press of time–

take it as a little thing

next to what endures.

“All this hurrying 

soon will be over.

Only when we tarry

do we touch the holy.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Tarrying today to touch the holy. Blessings to you and yours.

My memories–my armor and my underbelly. The filaments of my existence that build my confidence and simultaneously kick me in the ass.

I pause and sit for a moment in this place where happy and sad, uplifting and painful, collide.

*****

Recollections visit of glowing orange Christmas lights, casting a magical, odd glow on every thing in its swath. A crackling fire, warming my red and green flannel Lanz nightgown and painting my cheeks a fiery crimson. A muffled jingling of Santa’s silver sleigh bells outside my bedroom window, proving the unprovable.

I remember a stone church and a Christmas Eve Mass. I can still see the thin, late afternoon light, dwindling by the moment. Our church, a tiny structure of limestone and years, stood stoically in the waning light and stalwart in the December cold. As we entered, the warmth of the sanctuary filled my lungs and softened the harsh confines of the cold.

The advent candles signified the arrival of this sacred night and cast their glow on the live evergreens throughout the church. Each pine needle wore the illuminated glow of light. My young legs, clad in thick, cotton, red cable-knit tights, swung from the pew bench as I soaked it all up.

Hark the Herald, angel sing

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah

…Echoing their joyous strains. Glo-o-o-o Glo-o-o-o, Glo-o-o-o-o-Ria. In excelsis de-o…

The hymns, intertwined with my palpable excitement about Christmas, conspired to transport me entirely. The heavy incense, a scent I still covet, infused the space with sacred reverence. Another Christmas Eve memory interrupts, knocking loudly. This one provides depth to my history, for sure, but doesn’t glow, or shine.

My mother, my brother and I stood in a dark alley behind my mother’s apartment. I cannot remember the year. We were getting ready to go somewhere but, ignited by some benign conversation,  I stomped off into the Christmas Eve night instead of getting into the car.  With the dark of the night mirroring the darkness within, I walked. I remember raging disappointment and the swirling pain in my gut, my heart and my mind. This may be the first time that I allowed the raw emotion, rapidly raging under my skin, to surface. So many events predicated this eruption: my parents’ divorce.  My family structure turned downside-up. My perceived loss of security and financial stability.  I sat in the dredges of a dissolved dream. My depression, which didn’t even yet have a name, was poignant and vivid.

*****

As Christmas approaches, I see this kaleidoscope of my memories. The jewel-like gems juxtaposed with the dark, equally-as-important, shadows. The underbelly of that dark emotion used to fill my stomach with dread.

Pamela (whose writing and reflections are a constant gift) wrote a post months ago which still stays with me today. She wrote,

I was listening to an interview with Jack Kornfield – SuperMeditator – the other day in the car and he was talking about freedom. He said, “True liberation is the freedom to be who you are and not someone else. To hold yourself with compassion and say ‘This too, this too.’ It doesn’t mean you don’t have your stuff. But it’s about letting all that in along with the good.”

In the close of this post (which I’ve easily read five times), Pamela wrote,

It’s about being okay with being not quite okay. It is a nod to all of the mess. This too. Yes. This too.

Often, as I begin to judge an experience or a reaction, I whisper this glorious meditation to myself: this too, yes, this too. I used to chide those painful memories as a handicap, like a turtle rendered useless on its back. As the recollections echo this year, I am instead finding joy in their refrain. I now see a gift in that strained pain. I smile and nod. And instead of shoving that tangle of depression, disappointment and anger into a dusty corner, I put in on the shelf with the cherished memories. No longer regulated to dusty bunkers or disregarded, I say, with practiced peace,

This too, and Yes, This too.