Thursday, February 13, 2014


I’m trying to decide if I rise from depression or if I am raised. There must be something internal, a shifting of chemicals that triggers the onset of hope. But there is also a personal responsibility in lifting oneself out of the rabbit hole. The small shred of hope that has sustained me, that has said to me, “This will get better; it must get better,” inspires a battle of will. I will myself to get out of bed, to face the day, to go when I want to stay. That voice of me that has been clamoring for the light reaches up and says, “Please, give me more light. If there is not more, then I will make light."

Who is in charge of my thoughts? Which version of me says, “Not today. Today is not the day that I give in,” forcing the proverbial one foot in front of the other? 

The mind is a wondrous and shifting place. Mindfulness is not a myth, but a truth we should recognize in all its power. But we must also never give in to the black and white ideology that proclaims we have absolute control.

I will observe my thoughts. I will accept them. I will move forward.

I have decided that I rise and am raised. I am delivered from the depths by chance, by circumstance and by sheer will of want—the want to live and experience life.


Down deep, down in the dark
I stumbled on my own roots
and cried out in recognition.
Tears soaked the parched earth;
roots embraced sorrow and
lifted me up. 

Up top the sun is shining,
at first blinding.
Leaves, reaching, reaching
for more light; give me more light.
Breathing, reaching, breathing, reaching,
My strong roots have sustained life

for this moment.