I set up a blog for my business on blogger.  I like blogger better than wordpress actually.  So I may start a new personal blog there and just let it be random stuff. Sometimes meaningful sometimes not.  Let it be whatever.

Yeah it’s stupid really I know. Another blog, a new one I mean.  But I like structure and format, and like I said I think I put an expectation that this blog needed to be a certain way.  I named it walks in beauty and intended it to be positive views and perceptions after going through a tough depression spell.

I’ve been so busy though.  30 hour a week job, then my photography business, and a boyfriend.  Things are moving along, in five months we’re moving to Virginia.  I’m starting to plan for the house.  Paint colors and design stuff.  A few weeks ago started to strip the old paint off of the kitchen cabinets.  It needs to be done desperately and I know it will look great when it’s finished.  I know now that I really need to start working on things so some of it will be finished by the time we move in.  I want the kitchen to be finished and it’s a big job redoing the cabinets. And there are rooms that need to be painted. I’m excited, starting to work on these things makes me feel that we’re really are getting closer to moving in. Thinking and planning for the house has been my creative distraction from all of the work I have going on.  I will be glad though when I have more time to be able to write (and blog) more.

And I can’t wait to plant some plants.  First there have to be peonies.  Perhaps my favorite flower.  And they have to be white too. Perhaps planted along the side of the house.  Secondly herbs.  I have to have my herb garden.  Last spring I started some basil, parsley, and chives from seed.  Man those basil got huge!  Totally worth growing from seed because you get so many plants and nothing beats cooking with fresh basil.  I was so proud of my basil and it was fun seeing the little plants sprout up.

Listen to me talking about decorating and gardening.  I’ve become so homely.  Life is going to be different. I will be living in a very small town in an old house on the side of a mountain with no neighbors in site.  Quite different from what I’ve always wanted.  But I guess I’ve always been torn in what I wanted.  Part of me like living in a big city (Charlotte, though I know not a big metropolis, but in the context of my life it is).  But I also like the idea of living somewhere with a lot of land and no neighbors four feet away.  Brad brings a lot of peace in my life.  He brings stability, truth, and sincerity.  He has no interest in pop culture, and no need for popular gadgets and electronics.  Life is simple and pure.  He’s good for me that way.  He brings peace into my life.  My mother says that there’s a serenity about me now that I am with him. He’s good for me, period.  And I am good for him. I have my doubts and worries at times, but I also think we can make a nice little life for ourselves in that big house on the hill.

Before the breaking of the light meter (which wasn’t because of any one’s fault, it just stopped working) I started to make trips out to the cemetery that had caught my eye.  The road that went past it was at the bottom of a steep embankment so you could never see much of the cemetery other than a few tombstone’s skirting along the fence. nevertheless I was intrigued.  One of my first trips was on a chilly fall day.  The cemetery was much larger than one would ever guess, considering it was in the middle of town.  I didn’t find it morbid, I found it peaceful.  Of course, I think a lot of people feel that way.  But not a lot of people have made it an active interest to go around photographing them.

One of the mornings I was there I was taking a picture of a statue of a woman. it was the gravesite of a “beloved mother and wife” when out of the corner of my eye I saw an old mane walking towards me.  I thought perhaps he was some groundskeeper coming to tell me to get off the plot and not to take pictures, so I hurried up and moved along.  I looked back but didn’t see him anywhere, which was weird because that part of the cemetery was pretty wide open. Maybe he was a ghost.  I dunno, it was just kind of weird.

Speaking of weird. I thought I was weird for wanting to go take pictures of cemeteries, then one day I came across a book called “Beautiful Death” that featured nothing but photographs from cemeteries all over the world.  I then realized I wasn’t the only one.

Then the light meter on the camera broke. I was too poor to get a new camera, and when I try to find someone who might be able to repair the Ricoh, they might as well laughed in my face.  No one would be able to find the parts.  A long time went by where I didn’t shoot.  A few years ago I finally got a digital camera and I’ve hardly put it down since.

It wasn’t too long that I found that there are a lot of people who like to take photographs of cemeteries.  That it really isn’t that unusual.  Incidentally I would later find out that my mother got my name (mainly it’s spelling) from a tombstone.  When she was pregnant with me my grandmother took her for a walk at a nearby cemetery in hopes in would induce labor since I was about a week overdue.

My computer is now filled with photos of cemeteries, many photos waiting to be edited.  I’m grateful that they are there.  I’ve been so busy with work and a budding wedding photo biz I hardly do any fun photography (where’s the time?) But today was an especially irritating day at work, I wasn’t much in the mood to come home and work on website, marketing, etc.  So instead I pulled from my stash of cemetery photos and played around in photoshop.

“We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.” Chuck Palahniuk

It makes me wish my boyfriend was here.  It makes me miss him to the point I feel like I could cry.  I ache and I want to sleep but I can’t.  I think for a minute that I could take a tylenol pm but I know it will knock me out for hours. And there is a lot I hope to accomplish today.

I don’t like being up this early.  While everyone else sleeps. I am not in the mindset to try to verbalize and explore why.

I was in and out of sleep all night.  The times I would wake, the full moon was shining through the window right down on me.  A brilliant bright October full moon, the harvest moon.  Usually when I wake up and find the moon shining down on me I soak it in so to speak.  The light is serene, ethereal, and spiritual to me.  It always puts me there in the moment, on a different plane almost. It’s hard to explain right now.

But I didn’t find serenity from it tonight.  I body hurt too much and for some reason I needed to pee several times. I lost count of how many times I got up to go to the bathroom and I really didn’t have much to drink yesterday.

But the moon has been the brightest yet.  I’ve seen it more at night as the seasons change.  I often wake up to find it peeking through the tree limbs.  I’m glad to see the moon again.

I just wish I felt better right now. It’s frustrating.  There is much I hope to get done today.

I went to see Julie and Julia the other night.  You know the movie where the girl decides to cook her way through Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” cookbook and blog about it.  And that she would do it in a year.  There were more than 365 recipes, I think a little of four hundred.  It would entail cooking atleast one recipe per day. An undertaking, nonetheless. And for those who don’t know this is based on a true story. So, this women really did this.

That was about the only thing in the movie that I cared for. The fact she set her mind to something rather trivial, blog about it, and do it. Okay, so maybe it’s not trivial, but it’s something that she just wanted to do.

I used to be pretty active in blogging. I had one blog page before that I wrote in almost on a daily basis, but it was mainly about how depressed I was.  It got to a point where I felt it was time to change. So I started this blog with the intentions of finding beauty in daily life.  Didn’t exactly work out that way. I had a bunch of blog entries that I deleted (and wish I hadn’t).  This blog is pretty dull, let’s face it.

So I’m watching this movie and thinking about my own blogging (and serious lack of it this past year).  I love to write, it is more a part of me rather than a hobby or anything like that. But with my busy life now it is hard to find time to write and often I don’t know what to write about.  Much of my mind is preoccupied with work and business stuff.  I’ve been really busy, and when I am not working I feel rather drained, mentally and emotionally.

But if the blog had more of a focus.  I like the idea of trying to write about beauty in daily life.  But often times I find myself in a routine, a routine that I can’t exactly get myself out of. I have responsibilities, I have things I need to finish.

(Yes, I do recognize that the above is one long excuse.)

Routine.  I get up, I go to work. I make displays, create windows for shoppers to stop and go “ooooo and ahhh”.  I come home, I edit photographs from the wedding I shot the weekend before or the weekend before that.  (Right now as it stands I have two and a half weddings to edit).   I edit until about nine-ish, then talk to the boyfriend, then go to bed.  It all starts over the next day.

I know…excuses, excuses….

Is it possible to find some kind of beauty in a day of routine? And from someone who has spent much of her life in the throes of depression? (At varying degrees at various times).

To quote, Horace Walpole, “The world is a comedy to those who think and a tragedy to those who feel.” Can someone who has viewed life more tragically learn to find beauty in simple daily things?

I sit here and write this listening to a playlist of musicians who incidentally are all dead.  Nirvana, “The Man Who Sold the World”, “No Rain” by Blind Melon, “Would” by Alice in Chains, Jeff Buckley “Forget Her”.    That isn’t exactly helping the cause. Right now, Shannon Hoon sings….

“All I can say is that my life is pretty plain

I like watchin’ the puddles gather rain

And all I can do is just pour some tea for two

and speak my point of view

But it’s not sane, it’s not sane”

Remember the video where he was singing that song in a meadow, a breeze blowing, the sun shining? And the little dancing girl in the bumble bee outfit?  She just wanted to be accepted, but was laughed at. Then finally she found a group of other dancing bumble bees and they all danced happily in the meadow together.

“I just want some one to say to me

I’ll always be there when you wake

Ya know I’d like to keep my cheeks dry today

So stay with me and I’ll have it made

And I don’t understand why I sleep all day

And I start to complain that there’s no rain

And all I can do is read a book to stay awake

And it rips my life away, but it’s a great escape

escape……escape……escape……

All I can say is that my life is pretty plain

ya don’t like my point of view

ya think I’m insane

Its not sane……it’s not sane”

Shannon Hoon died of a drug overdose back in the mid-nineties. He was beautiful.  I was crushed when I heard he died.

I relate to the song. I feel it today. So maybe the beauty I see today is how I love music, the melodies, the lyrics, the words, because words have such resonance with me.  Music excites me, moves me. And sometimes carries me to another world. I haven’t really been into music much in a long while.  Like I said, I work, and I’m out of touch.  I need to put music back into my life again.

I would like to make it a point each day to stop and smell the proverbial roses.  To find something in the moment. There has to be beauty in the midst of daily routines.  I just really have to make myself stop to see it. I always make vows like this.  And I never follow through. It’s’ terrible that I have, in my mind, accepted that I won’t stick to it.  Like there is one part of me that is an authority figure and the other a child.  The authority preaches to do it, the child rebels.

I just would like to do not because of the novelty, or because it’s cute. I just want to do it for my own sanity. Like Julia Cameron says in The Artist’s Way, you need to fill the well. It’s the things that you find wonder in that fills the well that is so important to creative people.

So today I find beauty in music and writing again.

And little dancing bumblebees.

I’m very good at planning.  I plan my days, I plan what I am going to get accomplished in any given day, week, month….

But then the day comes, I wake up with all intentions of getting what I have planned finished.  But something happens. I find it difficult to motivate myself. I find myself feeling down, sad. Then I get nothing accomplished.  It makes it more difficult to start on something when you feel down.  It snowballs after that.  I begin to feel worse because I am not accomplishing anything.  It seems like a catch-22.  If only I could get myself up and going.

I just can’t today.

So instead I piddle around online.  I watch The Notebook (though I’ve already seen the movie before AND read the book).  It’s been go go go for a while, with only a few days here and there where I feel like I could relax.  But I didn’t fully relax.  All of the things I felt I needed to do nagged at me.  All of the people visiting out of town, biding for some of my time.

I am one of these people that needs down time, time alone, time to relax, time to sort out the tangled thoughts in my head. I haven’t really had that in over two months. But maybe it isn’t that important. Perhaps I am just a wuss.

Tuesday was my niece’s 20th birthday.  Twenty years old.  I remember the day she was born, I remember her first birthday.  She was going to have friends over to go swimming and have a cook out.  But it rained.  Only a couple of friends came by but they came and went.

So Jorden and I went swimming, in th rain. She frowned at me when I suggested it.  “We’re going to get wet anyway.”  We used to swim so much when she was growing up.  When she was little I would hold her in the shallow end of the pool, spin around, creating a wall of water around us.  She laughed and splashed her hands against the surface.   When she got older I tried to teach her to dive.  She could jump in off the diving board, but she could never work up the nerve to dive.  I remember hours spent trying to teach her.  Off the side of the pool, from the ladder, it didn’t matter.  She finally learned to dive but it wasn’t from me.

It’s raining and she’s standing on the diving board.  She mimics an Olympic diver, swinging her arms back dramactically before taking the dive.  She was here for two weeks and this was the only time we went swimming together.  I feel like I hardly spent any time with her.  And I didn’t. Because I wasn’t mentally there in the moment when hanging out with her.  I was always preoccupied with something else.  It sucks really.  That is my life.  I am always somewhere in my mind.

Madness I tell you.  I get so tired of it some times. So tired of it.

I played today a little in photoshop to help make myself feel better.  I have a lot of photos (non-work related) that need editing.  It’s nice to have a pool of pictures to pull from when I just want to play.  And I think that’s what I need sometimes, to play.  Feed the spirit.  That’s something I need to do, to make time for.

Truth is, I would be a lot further along in photography career if I was more discipline.  I would be less in debt, have better knowledge of photography, and be making more money.  But no. Why? Simply put, I’m crazy.  I think I spend more time trying to figure myself out than anything.  There is no end to the craziness. If it isn’t depression it is insecurity, if it isn’t insecurity it anxiety, if it isn’t anxiety it is lack of energy.  Now I am procrastinating.  And I don’t know why.  I can’t say that it is plain ole laziness, because it isn’t.  For some reason I can’t face the work I have to do.

Of course it is my nature to analyze and try to figure out why. Why the procrastination.  I know I have to deal with these issues if I hope to succeed some day.  It’s irritating, it always seems like it is something with me.  I’m sick of being crazy.  Why can’t I be normal? I envy people that have confidence and just get stuff done.

I finally finished editing close to four hundred photographs.  I start a new batch tomorrow, the last wedding I shot.  And on top of that, I have a wedding this weekend.  So, two weddings to edit with anywhere between four to five hundred photographs to go through.

I have four weddings in July.  FOUR.

It’s beginning to feel monotonous at times.  And overwhelming.  I think that is a big part of it.  I get overwhelmed, and when I do, I feel like shutting down.  I can’t deal with it.  And I feel as though I never escape it.  My photography career is always there.  My desk, my computer, my camera, are all in the same room  I sleep in.  It isn’t like a job I can go in, put my hours, and leave. Leave to go do other things.  It is always there.

Come to think of it, I shouldn’t give myself too much of a hard time.  You always hear people talk about how they want to start doing stuff, like hobbies, stuff to their house, or their business and they never actually do it. They get off work then go home to watch their favorite TV shows they recorded on DVR.

I just expect a lot from myself.  Though that expectation gives me a hard time a lot. And sometimes that expectation makes the inner child want to pout and refuse to do anything it is told.

Maybe that’s the problem. My inner child needs to play. But then I think, well, I was off on a three day holiday with Brad, I didn’t work then.

It’s not the same. I need to play.

I spend a great deal of mental energy telling myself I need to be working. I should get these pictures edited today, I should update my website tomorrow, I will work on creating business cards the next day…and on and on it goes.  Do I get all of those things done in the time that voice tells me I should? Um, no.  Not even close.  I come home, drag my feet, manage at some point to get myself started on editing, and maybe I’ll get a quarter of them done.

Your body needs various nutrients to survive. And the right balance.  You need potassium, but too much can be harmful.  Having too much of some vitamins can hinder the absorption of others.  It’s all about balance of the right nutrients.

Life is like that.  It can’t be all work no play. Creativity is like that.  There needs to be a balance, otherwise your soul ends up starved.  Julia Cameron says something about that in The Artist’s Way.  You need play time to fill the creative well.  Or something to that effect.  I think my creative soul is depleted.  Malnourished.

I had this idea.  I took my camera up to Virgina this past weekend.  I was going to take artistic photos to document the weekend with Brad.  Photos that would be for me.  Photos that we could look back at years from now. Photos documenting our budding relationship.

Did I take any? Not really. I spent all of ten minutes taking pictures of the clematis growing outside the back door.  My camera unfortunately is psychologically attached to the word “work” to me.  If that makes sense.  I find myself staring at one of the pictures.  Just kind of lost in it, it’s so pretty to me.

I’m off balance, I’m beginning to see that now.  Though I am not always working, the thoughts are there, the voice nags me about what i need to be doing and resist.  I resist perhaps because I don’t allow myself to have fun with different creative things. I don’t give myself permission to do other things when I feel there is so much other stuff I should be doing.

I’ll find the balance one of these days.  I’ll figure out what works. For right now, all I can do is keep pushing forward.

There was a  large willow tree beside of the house.  I would stand under it and be completely protected by a canopy of vines. I could swing on those vines all day.  My grandmother cut the tree down.  No one really knows why and they don’t doubt that she may have done it just to be spiteful, because that was the way she was.  She also cut down the pear tree.  It had been there for nearly as long as the house.  I have memories of being there in the warm sun picking up pears off of the ground. My mom believes she probably cut down the tree because it was something of the Murray family (my grandfather’s family) she could get rid of. She couldn’t tear down the house they built so instead she’ll just cut down the trees they planted.

You follow the gravel driveway down the hill and at the base is a creek that curves around and follows the road.  At the base, there used to be a small little beach. I would as a kid walk out on the beach, which was predominantly pebbles, and waddle in the rushing cold water. I was fascinated by the pebbles, their colors, their sizes, how they felt in my hand or underneath my feet.  The little beach is gone now and has been for a while.  Now it is a large embankment that my grandmother had made when she was mayor of the small town.  It is believed that she did it just to piss off the woman that lived at the bottom of the hill by the creek.  Grandma said it was because the creek would flood but my mother believes it was the former.

My best memories of that place was when I was little. And in those memories I remember the sun shining, it being warm, and perhaps breezy.  Oddly I don’t have childhood memories of it in the rain.  My grandfather had a rather large vegetable garden on the hill behind the house.  It was always ritualistic for him to take me up there and for us to pick cantaloupes.  I know he grew cantaloupes and tomatoes but for some reason I don’t remember what else.  Perhaps I remember those two because those were my favorites, and perhaps whatever else he grew I didn’t care for too much.

My grandfather was the opposite of my grandmother.  My grandmother was large, loud, needed to be the center of attention, and seemed to have no conscious about lying. My grandfather was tall, thin, quiet, and gentle.  He loved to garden and loved cats.  He had two cats when he died, and what my grandmother did with them shortly after he died we don’t know.  She never would say and we all just came to the conclusion she simply kicked them out. Because again, that was the type of thing she would do.

I remember one time, it must have been spring or summer, my grandfather bought us a watermelon.  Because me and my grandfather loved watermelons.  He cut the watermelon lengthwise and cut it into long quarters.  He then gave each me and himself one of those long pieces and between us sat a full shaker of salt.  It was the biggest piece of watermelon I ever sat down in one sitting to eat.  But to my grandfather eating this watermelon wasn’t sitting down to eat a snack, it was an event. One you took your time with and enjoyed, much like one may sit down to read a book.  I can’t remember if I ate the whole thing, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I did.  Almost every time I go up to the house I look up to the spot where the garden was.  He was so proud of it and was always was eager to take one up to give a tour of it.  Come to think of it, it seemed less like pride and more like a childlike fascination as to what he could grow.

All of that was before I was twelve.  He had a heart attack around that time and never was the same afterward. From then to his death he spent much of the time watching TV and sleeping.

For most in my family the house doesn’t conjure warm happy memories.  Perhaps the last twenty years of its existence put a damper on that.  My grandmother was a difficult ill-mannered woman, who lied, and gossiped.  Sure she had a few good qualities, but for the most part she was a difficult person to be around.  The house became something like a ghost.  My grandmother was obese and never seemed to ever care to do anything about it.  Eventually she stayed confined to three small rooms in the house. The rest of the house always seemed cold and musky.  And at times it felt spooky. Isolated on a hill and the occasional haunting sound of the train that passed (there is a train track that is midway between the house and the bottom of the hill). After my grandfather died and my grandmother closed herself off in those three rooms.  By this time the willow tree had been long gone, the pear tree cut down, and the vegetable garden on the hill a mere memory.
I guess that’s when we began to refer to it as grandma’s house.  Of course, it’s natural, she is the only one living there. Or was living there.  But she died nearly three years ago and we still refer to as grandma’s house.  My mother gets anxiety when she goes up there.  And she won’t stay in the house by herself.  She would rather check into a hotel than to stay there.  The house has been empty for three years for the first time in nearly a hundred years.

In the past few years, whenever I would go up there I would imagine how the house could be fixed up. What could be done to improve it, what could be done to give it life again. Why I would ever indulge in the idea I don’t know, perhaps I just see the potential, or perhaps some small part knows that maybe, just maybe, that my destiny and the house’s are intertwined.

I recently met someone online, someone who lives six hours from me.  And it seemed the house had a purpose again.  It would provide a meeting place for us.  Not quite in the middle, still more of a drive for him than me, but still cut down on some of the driving time and would give us more time together.

This past weekend was our first weekend there. I arrived shortly before him.  It was late in the day, the sun shone in and made it feel warm and inviting.  I caught myself thinking that it was the first time that I have ever been in the house alone.  But I didn’t feel afraid or uncomfortable, I felt quite at home.

Brad and I sat on the front porch as the light faded. We talked about anything and everything. The front porch became our spot there.  Where we mused and daydreamed.  And it wasn’t long before he brought up the subject of perhaps he and I having a future there at that house.

This past weekend brought new memories of the house.  Mine and Brad’s first full weekend together.  Hopefully the first of many to come. But not only is it our meeting place, it now represents a possible future for us as a couple.

I can see myself having a garden where my grandfather’s was. I can see Brad and I sitting on the porch in the morning while drinking our coffee, or sitting on the swing late in the afternoon.  I can see us cozying up together in the evening to watch a movie.  I can see us taking naps together on lazy rainy Sunday afternoons. I will plant a willow and pear tree to replace the ones my grandfather’s family planted. I do think I will try to refer to the house as granddaddy’s house from now on. Reclaim the heritage of the house.

I catch myself mourning that sense of wonder.

That sense that there was a destiny for me.  That there were good things in store for me.  I wanted to learn about things around me, i wanted to read all of the books in the bookstore, I believed in soul mates.

I stopped believing in destiny some time ago.  Traded it for reality. My frame of mind and mental approach to things doesn’t come from the dreamer within, but from an increasingly cynical realist.

And I stopped believing in soul mates.

Which is what I miss the most.  Because it gave me hope that there was someone out there for me.

That sense of wonder is gone.  Those fleeting moments when it shows up seem to be only for the purpose to remind me of what I have lost. I still cling to hope.  I try to stay within the moment.  Because if I think of the past, and how then I dreamed of the great things that could be in store for me, I see the reality that none of it happened. So, I fear now, if i dream, it will only end up like many other dreams and hopes. Unfulfilled, unrealized.

At times it feels like someone died. And in a way someone did.  A part of me of died.  And at times I feel in my chest, a heavy weight, my eyes fight back the tears. It was a slow death, one that started a two years ago this month, when I went through the worst depression I have ever gone through.

I feel at times I was robbed of many years of my life.  I fought depression of varying degrees since I was in my teens, I had little self-esteem, and confidence. As a result, I hid from the world. But it was that wonderment, that hope that kept me going.  That filled my empty sad heart.  That was what I had in this world.  It took a long time to find confidence (though fragile it is), and the depression for the most part is now under control with the exception of days like today, where I am just not strong enough to keep it at bay.  And as I finally get to a point where I feel I have battled issues in my life that were big battles (and battles I still fight), I fear it is too late.  I am single at an age where most men are not, and those who are, are fat, bald, and have three kids living with them.  It isn’t fair.  For so many reasons, reasons beyond my control, I was screwed up when it came to men.  It took me a long time to gain the confidence to make myself and my feelings vulnerable to men again, and when I am ready, there is no one left. Or no one who fits me.  It isn’t fair, it was what I wanted most in the world.  But I guess that is what everyone wants most in the world.  But to me, I have felt alone for most of my life. In fact, I honestly don’t know what it is like not to feel alone.

This is when I miss that wonderment the most.  When I feel like there is no use anymore. Just give it up.  There is no one out there for me. There is no soul mate. Not for me anyway. Just give up what little hope I have left.

Sometimes I wonder if I had a little girl, what would be the things I would teach her. What would I teach her based on the things I have learned in life?  I used to think I would teach her to see magic and wonderment in the world around her.  But now, I am not so sure.  Because it is devastating to have ideals and hopes fall.  Perhaps it is better to raise a realist.

What is better in the end? Dreams or wisdom?

And then I think of her.  A phantom little girl that haunts me from time to time.  Though sometimes I think she is me, other times I think she is a child I would have had.  I once had a vision of her sitting on my lap in the woods, sitting under the canopy of large trees, an occasional breeze that ruffles the leaves. I whispered in her ear, asked if she could hear the fairies. And her eyes were wide and attentive.  I would feel her in my arms, the weight of her little body on my lap, and my nose nuzzled in her brown curly hair, which she would unfortunately inherit from me.

But she’s just a phantom.  Though the vision faded, and not as strong as it used to be.  Because I have lost her. I have lost that sense of her.

Anyway…

It snowed two weeks ago.  Unfortunately that was when I felt REALLY bad.  I was dizzy, my head hurt, I felt nauseous, yada yada yada. Enough about that. It sucks though that I felt so bad.  I really wanted it to snow this year.  It is so beautiful here, with all of the trees.  It truly becomes a winter wonderland.  I did manage to get out for about fifteen minutes.  I am finally posting a picture (about the only decent one).

Then the following weekend it was 70 degrees.  It was like Mother Nature atleast wanted to get a good snow in, since it was probably her last chance.  And I thank you for it.  it was beautiful.

So, now flowers are starting to bloom and the vernal equinox is only a few days away. I can’t wait!  I’m ready for flowers.  A few daffodils were blooming so I thought I’d try my hand at photographing flowers.  Actually i didn’t spend much time on this, but I like it.  It’s screaming to have writing put on it.  I am a collector of quotes, so I will have to search for a good quote to put on it.  Also, the new interest in floral photography is making me itch to get a macro lens! (I’m already researching it)

I’ve battled with depression most of my life.  Sometimes I have bad spells and sometimes there is just an undercurrent of sadness.  It always seemed I was in the midst of one of the two.  But for a while now, it seemed gone.  But as I mentioned in my last post, I can feel it coming back.

I have to be organized, because my thoughts are all over the place.  I have to organize externally, because internally I can’t make much sense of anything.  And because of that I don’t always recognize where certain feelings come from.

I know my creativity has helped me a great deal in the past.  As you may have noticed, I write more when I am depressed.  It’s funny, hardly no one responded to my last blog, two comments, a couple of emails, and nothing from some of my closest friends.  I can imagine them rolling their eyes, thinking, “oh, no, here we go AGAIN….Shannan and her dramatic blogs…Shannan is depressed AGAIN.”  Truth is, writing takes me away from it for a while.  It is the way I organize it, the way I put it in perspective.  And it is comforting to express it to maybe a sympathetic ear or two.

And it was in the very process of writing blogs about the experience that I saw how creativity pulled me away from those feelings for a while.

It helps me when I put myself in the midst of a creative project.  Though I will say there have been times when I felt so down it was all I could do to get out of bed.  All I can say, is that, if it is coming on again, I feel I at least have some tools now to deal with it. To help it from getting so bad.  At least that is what I hope.

Today I dig my teeth into a creative project (editing photos).  It takes me away from how bad I felt last night.  Last night was bad, I don’t want to have spells like that again.  I am scared of them, and unfortunately the fear of them doesn’t help. The fear that I could be going down that road again.  And the fact that I had one last night, is evidence I can be facing the depression demon again.

I have been having vivid dreams again. Dreams like I do when I go through those phases.  The night before last, I dreamt I was traveling with a man I loved.  No one I know in reality, all I know is that in the dream I felt love for him.   We were traveling for a long time, and it was dim and dark.  There were times, when we were traveling through fog, other times we were traveling through the night.  Through different cities and landscapes. The end of the dream, we reached the shore.  We were at the beach when dark clouds broke and we could see the sunset.  And we were so happy.  Last night I dreamt I was in Paris, and I was so thrilled to have finally made it to Paris because I have wanted to go for so long.

I used to dream of beaches all of the time, and most often the beaches were dim. Often at dusk or the sky was filled with gray clouds.  Beaches represent boundaries, or the end of something.  What is that boundary? That end? That goal?  I’ve dreamed of this beach for over ten years now. Ten years. What is it?  And why, in the most recent dream is there someone with me.  Who is he? Or what does he represent?

The signs are showing, it seems I could be facing this again.  I hope I can beat it, deal with it, or keep it at bay.  At times, I feel I can, because I am stronger, and at other times, I feel I have little fight left in me.