I woke yesterday from strange dreams where I was homeless again, running from people who wanted to hurt me. I was living in the streets in a dark, crowded world, trying to stay hidden and find somewhere safe. When I woke I found the fibro pain was present but the sinus pain easing, and a melancholy message from Rose on my phone. I sent her poems about sadness and hope. Then I got up, made a cup of green and cranberry tea, turned my armchair to face my garden through the window, and got out my pen to write. For this, I had more company than perhaps I would have wished. It had been wet the night before so the garden was pearled and fragrant. Poems and ink flowed. I’ve had some very interesting conversations lately and things are starting to gel in my mind about why this depression has come. It’s calming my heart, helping me find ways through. Sometimes it helps more to talk with old friends who know me well than the shrinks who do not. Things are moving inside, my system is shifting and responding. I’m starting to see a path. I’m writing again.
It’s not over. There’s still anguish inside. I’m still moving slowly, underwater, fragile and lost. I don’t recognise friends, I’m disconnected from my life, choices, goals, dreams. But I perceive a relationship between hope and hopelessness. With the dreams of a bright future now comes also the dread certainty of loss. Listening to both those voices, both songs, the dark and bright, the singing and the screaming in my heart.
Yesterday I sat by my window and remembered what it was like to live in a caravan. Permeable to sound, cold, heat , mosquitoes. Cramped, delightful, stressful with noise in the early morning, people walking past my windows, garden dying in the heat. But I loved it, the river nearby, the solitude, the bath a short walk away, pots of basil and of jonquils. I can find that again, that joy in an imperfect and temporary home. It’s not what I’ve been dreaming of for this house, not my safe forever home, but I can find that acceptance again. I can let my dreamers enjoy the space, the studio, the garden. It’s not so rotten and tainted that there’s no stars at all here. I can live more lightly in the space, less fear, I’m a temporary warden only. Garden for those who will come after me. Climb trees, go camping, sleep under stars when I need to. It need not be a cage or trap. I can let the old dream go, the hope for years of security go. It can be imperfect and beautiful.