"I made a mistake" and SAD (seasonal affective disorder)

So sad was I as I realized yesterday that I had accidentally removed my writing blog from this planet forever. I thought at the time I was deleting the blog on which I had only a few of my pictures in larger format. When I went to find a story for a friend yesterday the understanding came to be. Now in a better place in my mind, I knew I had to let it go. I thought of this journal page I had made a little over a year ago. That mistake had more life altering effects. This mistake is minimal.
And so I will look for remnants of that blog in my computer. Today I will share the story that I was going to show to my friend. The story is called "Caves" and was actually three pieces which I put together. I wrote it about four or five years ago. The reason I wrote "Caves" initially had much to do with my Seasonal Affective Disorder. It is also about loneliness. If you or someone you know suffers from SAD you may find the story interesting. If you are not certain whether you have SAD you could probably read it. I know the story has helped a number of people already. Maybe it is meant to help you also.


"When the sun shines
The snow
Has such an enchanting sparkle
You can imagine you are a fairy princess
Flitting carelessly over the snow.

When the sun shines
The crystals and stained glass
Hanging in the window
Put magical spots of color
On the pale yellow walls.

The small birdhouse
Of tiny mirrored tiles
Sets coins of light
On yet another pale wall.

Each spot of color
And coin of light
Says
“I am with you -
No need to be frightened.”

When the sun shines
The colors are so intense
They nearly take your breath away.


The hoar frost
Is like something
You thought you could only imagine.

When the sun shines
We see “God’s promise”
In the rainbow.
For that instant in time
We know, all is well.


They said my writing is mystical. They said, “You need to give more details”. They said, “You must explain more.” Yes, but this writing is difficult. This explaining is painful. If I write creatively, if I write mysteriously, they will not get the full picture. I suppose that is what I want. I suppose it may hurt too much to write it more clearly. I suppose I am scared to have the writing understood more fully. The reader might find me strange, more strange than I already see myself.
I have been a victim of seasonal affective disorder. Though I have been using the lights for a number of years, I still feel the effects of this requirement for extra sunlight through some of the more bitter winter months, and through times when the goddess of light can not be seen clearly through periods of grey regardless of the time of year.
The loneliness is so big. Sometimes it feels the loneliness is consuming me. Perhaps it is a tiny microorganism gnawing away at my shell. Sometimes it feels more like a monster, trying to devour me in one huge gulp. Often I am unable to dredge up the energy required for fighting this beast. As my shell is consumed in greater and greater and yet greater quantities, the energy drains out of me more and more rapidly. I need to quash the animal. Somehow I need to bandage the spot. I need to keep the first tiny flickering of doubt from even entering. I must encase myself in a stronger shell so the loneliness cannot be all consuming. Yet, importantly, I must let the shell be porous. My sensitivity is paramount to my being. Somehow I must hold out the pain. The fine attunement to feeling must remain. As I search for the balance, I seek the caves.
In some months, I am not even able to remember the caves. The weight of the darkness is too heavy. Instead, I might see birds, like in January. This particular January, my eyes wanted to give me problems, not just literally, but figuratively as well. I opened the door to let January in. She was not totally unexpected. Calmly, she proceeded into my sanctuary. December had flown through on beautiful, graceful wings of a dove. At times she was bold – an eagle. At times she was wise - a snowy owl. Raucous behaviour with wisdom, noticed later, was displayed as a crow. Yes, December had gone flying through.
Now January wanted to stay. It felt she wanted to stay forever. She was not flying through. I tried often to find the indigo birds. Indigo birds were spots of light I could often see when I was relaxed and had my eyes closed. I imagined them being a message from God, telling me “all is well.” In January these birds were hiding. Instead it felt like some huge creature, maybe a vulture, was under my eyelid, stuck inside. It kept flapping its’ wings, trying to escape. Finally it would be free, only to return a day later with even greater struggles. I tried to relax. I tried to set it free, but the trying, was difficult.
At times, when the sun shone and the air was calm, the dove of December seemed to still fly through gracefully. But then panic soldiers were banging at the doors again, demanding to come inside. They would come storming in, marching, stomping, shouting. Maybe they were telling the vultures to leave, or maybe calling in more.
Then only sixty some days later I would question - why must March, why must Spring, feel so much like walking in the deep, dark forest? Why does it feel like I will never find my way through the forest with all its’ darkness? Why does the ringing phone frighten me like the howling of a wolf? Why do the grey skies hang overhead like the darkness of death? Why do the clouds feel like clouds of dust, making breathing ever more difficult, ever more complex? Why must every step bring the fear of falling into the deep dark water? And this water holds no beautiful coral. There are no beautifully coloured fish. Because of the dense forest above, the water is murky. The water holds - maybe sharks, maybe creatures with eight arms, maybe more, waiting to grab any unsuspecting life that lets itself fall through the surface. Why must March feel like a great, humungous, rough, black blanket being tossed over me, stifling me? Why am I being pushed to the ground, into the water, yet further into the deep, deep darkness?
Oh why must March leave me feeling so weak, that the devil is holding my hand? He is holding my hand and pulling me. Pulling me where? Pushing me, with whatever strength may be required to get me even deeper into the darkness.

The caves, they bring me some comfort, if only I remember to enter. I go in search of stalactites and stalagmites. Some of the formations I have found in the past. Of these, very few seem within reach any more. They seem to desire, often, to be out of my line of vision. Or maybe they have somehow diminished in their size. How could that be of a stalactite or stalagmite?
Sometimes I wander aimlessly in search. Other times my footsteps follow a known path. Occasionally the known path still leaves me searching. They are not where I thought. Or perhaps I can see them, many of the stalactites and stalagmites, but they are too far in the distance. I keep traveling, apparently round in circles, and still cannot reach them.
Then I might look back. I walked right past and missed them. I turn. Now they are gone again. I wonder if I could be at peace if I would leave the caves. No, I entered while looking for peace.

The season of snow and ice passes. The caves do not beckon so much. There are other adventures. Now the seashore beckons. Bare toes can dig in the sand. Waves can be counted. A gentle breeze can be felt in the leaves. The coming storm may rage. Sparks will fly.
About me, there is a contentment. I sense harmony. I enjoy the green life floating in the air, flowing in my veins.

Again the flow seems to chill. The green turns to gold, and then brown. I glance at the caves, knowing soon the time will come.
The entrance to the cave appears to broaden. As I approach, I notice immediately some small arrangements. They are familiar and lovely. I nod and move on. There are more, many more. I look about. Though most seem familiar, I see new figures. I stop for a time to take in their beauty. Then I continue. I had caught a glimpse in the past of something rare, but achievable. I have many steps to make. The path seems long.
And then, I nearly have to close my eyes. The sun is shining through. I do not care from where it originates. The crystal structures are of such beauty. I feel so rich. There is one, more, yet another. I seem to be able, miraculously, to hold a piece. They had become part of me. I see one, maybe two, or three more. I take in their beauty. I feel their strength. They seem to gather strength from me. Then it is time to leave. Empowered, I am able to depart from the cave. Now that I know where the crystallizations are, I will be able to return. Sometimes the road will still be long. But I know the path. And I will again feel the contentment of the caves."

On yesterday's CaC "getting to know you day", Helene had questions about:

Magick and Freedom in the Writing world.

I'd thought to write a story but as usual I lost time. Here are my responses:

1)Do you feel that immense Freedom in the writing world? can you write about anything?

Yes, I absolutely feel freedom in the writing world. I’m not sure that I could write about anything. I prefer to write about that which I know, that which I feel. I was asked to write a piece specifically for someone. That seemed more like homework. If I choose to write specifically for someone, that is much better.

2)Do you feel safer in the writing world or are you at ease too with speaking?
what is the difference for you?

I am somewhat at ease with speaking, have done presentations, but I feel much more comfortable with expressing myself in writing. I’m not so great at instant comebacks. I tend to “stick my foot in my mouth” quite often. I do much better when I have time to think more about what I want to say. I have done readings sometimes but that is different because I’ve had time to think about what I am going to say to go with the readings.

3)Can you travel thanks to writing?

Yes, I am able to do that but haven’t taken much opportunity to do so. To this time I’ve mostly written about experiences and my thoughts. I want to get much more into fiction. That’s down the path. I do love to use metaphor and personification. It slips out sometimes without my realizing. That brings me joy.

4)Do you re-create another world, or another self in the writing?is it an escape or a way to dream?to find some peace of mind?

I don’t think I’ve really taken opportunity to do that very much but after reading Helene’s French posse piece I am inspired to re-create another world. I do sometimes enjoy reading fantasy and have just barely started in January a fantasy piece. It was set aside. I’ll return to it.

I started therapeutic writing about three years ago. It has greatly benefited me in coming to a place where I am more comfortable with myself. The words just seemed to flow from me. I think now I get more peace of mind through my visual art and combining words with the visual art. That’s a very good thing for me as I still have this battle with depression and self-esteem levels. It’s not quite the same now, but creativity seems to make a huge difference. Also, my helpers, professional types, are not as available to me, so it’s great I’ve discovered healing through creativity.

5) Can you write about your secrets to feel better when you need to share?( either in blogs or private diaries)

Yes, there are some things I can write about on my blog when I need to share. I’m not sure I would call them secrets. I’ve never really kept a diary that I felt comforted by – such a pity. I probably would have felt much more comfortable about myself, my diabetes, my feelings, if I had been guided through a writing journey. Emotions were not something to be readily shared when I was growing up. That’s ok. I grew up in a very loving and supportive family. I think my parents and the people who were close to me just wanted me to be happy but they didn’t really know what would have been best to help me to that avenue. I do feel blessed that they allowed me the many avenues and encouragement they did.

6)Are there things you would never write?(in your diaries or in blog etc)

This fits together with the piece about secrets. I have written some pieces which I have shared with only a very few people. I have not shared them with a more general audience because of the sensitivities of other people regarding their own capabilities, journeys. But I did write about them.

Regarding myself, I feel it is much better to talk (write) about how I feel and things I’ve experienced in the possibility it might help someone else. At readings I’ve done, where I’ve talked about depression and low self-esteem, I’ve had people come to me afterwards and tell me that’s exactly how they’ve felt. They were grateful. I also know for certain that I drew one person back to writing that had not done it for many years even though he has a degree in writing.

7) have you ever done Ghost writing, it's like role playing with letters or emails?
would you be interested in this?

I’m not sure if I’ve ever done it. I don’t think so. I think it would be fun. Would the recipient know it is role-playing and know who wrote it? I think it might be tricky for me to keep my whereabouts secret but I believe it could be very much fun.

8)Would you write about your fantasies or keep them in your mind, because it's too secret and private to share?

Hmmmm, I think I’ll keep the answer to myself. ; )

9) would you feel safer to write a blog if you were anonymous?

I don’t think it would make any difference to me. I am often too open and willing to share but maybe that’s a good thing.

10)Do you believe that being anonymous increase the freedom of writing?or do you feel that then maybe you are not seen and heard in your complete real self?

I feel to a large extent I would not be seen for my complete, real self. A friend of mine feels I’ve my own style of writing. I think if anyone knew me very well they would recognize the writing. Once I start doing more fiction I’m not sure that will hold true, but I suspect it would still be apparent.

11) What is writing to you?

To me words reach levels of my soul that would otherwise be inaccessible. The ability to write and therefore dig deeply within, allows so much freedom. There’s a saying that “a picture paints a thousand words”. To me that saying is so unrealistic. If someone believes that, then how many pictures would a story paint? We are all unique, extremely individual. With every grouping of words put into our brains we each envision something a tiny bit different. There will be common themes, common ideas of focus, but our past experiences and knowledge will allow us to paint that picture in its own very individual way. To me, that is richness at the highest level.

See also this poem from a few years ago which I recently posted at my other blog.

sliding through shades of blue:
I've always loved the colour blue. I was so entranced when we were returning from Regina to the farm a couple of evenings ago. Greg was very kind and made some minute detours so that I might capture photos. The clouds, their many colours, the moon, the sunset - all were intoxicating. This photo shows in some small way the layers of blue.



The summer days often make me feel as though I'm sliding through shades of blue, not necessarily in a good way. I'm thinking more of the moody blues. Cat's frequent need for attention, our holiday time being spent mainly at the farm (not really a holiday if you can imagine) and little time to create, especially in my mind, bring on these blue shades.

Here are a couple of examples of some creative time I've been squeezing in between the other blues. Some of the journal pages mention snow, heaven forbid. Some of the writing is newer. I tend to write while on longer road trips. The inks are kind of a new fave - cat's eye color box fluid chalks. Yummmm. They're nearly as scrumptious as the Reese's miniatures I mention on one of the pages.





I've also been doing a tiny bit of writing at windyangelsandyou - more on shades of blue. Take a look.