Sitting on the deck in a lounge chair, listening to cheerful birds chatter as the soft wind whistles through tree leaves. Across the lake someone is playing Celtic music - just the flute playing – soft, mournful and simple - echoing off the mountains - hugging the lake with a sound of despair and hope mixed in a maze of sweet melody. The wind carries the lake water to the beach, as it gently licks the shore. The clouds above the mountains are grey and still, hovering like a crowd of people waiting for something to happen. But the clouds know better. Only they can make it happen – the outpouring and release of rain is up to them – only they decide when to crack open and spill all that has been held with in.
It has been the summer of rain. The clouds unable to retain much – always spilling out onto the land. And the days that do remain dry, carry a wind that is slow and wet, the clouds threatening to crack at any moment. It feels as though the earth is mourning – mourning for the spirit of a people that are broken – that hold onto hope and optimism – but who are cracking on the inside. I feel I need to take my cue from the clouds and stop waiting for something to happen. I must spill what remains in my cracked spirit – must spill the sorrow, hurt, shame and fear. And only when the last drop has been purged from the very depths of my soul, only then, will I begin to heal.
The flute music has stopped. The wind is still. All that remains is a cheerful chattering bird, and the heavy clouds.
Tales of depression and shared darkness
3 weeks ago