Garden

"Got a garden of songs where I harvest all my thoughts / wish I could harvest one or two for small talk."

Ani DiFranco

All the thoughts, thriving together.

I have a lot of thoughts, just sitting in my garden. Are they seeding and rooting and growing; or are they simply rotting? I do not know. But I do know this: I thought I was better than I am. I thought I was big and tough and brave; thought I could do it on my own.

But, I am sad.

It sounds like my garden is rotting.

I thought the depression was under my thumb; but it seems that instead of me indenting it, it is leaving its mark on me.

Fight or climb; work with or against.

And I struggle. 

My little garden is sad that she does not get to grow her thoughts. 

I thought I was bigger than the depression; turns out making it a competition is no longer beneficial. Because there is no bigger or better: it just is. There are choices to be made. 

I would rather sit and just, not. 

Instead I just sit in a ball of insecurity, agonizing over the next minute and then the next one, all the while doing nothing. No tears, no anger, no release. 

I am the same Heidi I was before being motionless, before birthing a baby, before getting pregnant. I am still her, and I am quality goods, and I am goods with a depression. 

And that is okay. Plenty of goods came from the depression era.

Depression era glass, to name one good thing.

And plenty of good things have depressions in them.

Africa's Afar Depression

I am learning (in a painfully slow manner) to work with the depressions instead of against them. Instead of using my energy to fight, I'm turning the glass to see it in a different angle, to capture the mosaic in the light. To find the good in it, to see how the indents let light through.

And it is hard. Hard to turn it and work with instead of fighting against or giving in. Hard to make it work for me.

And I wonder how one with any other malady views their disease. Does one with glaucoma only focus on the haze or the light they see through it? 

Even in the smog there is light.

It all comes down to choice. Choosing the emote the good, because one knows it is there and not necessarily because they feel it.

I am not fighting. 

I am turning. I am changing. I am rephrasing. I am absolutely refusing to believe that this depression holds no good for me in it. 

 ". . .all things work together for good. . ."

Romans 8:28 KJV

I know there is more to the verse. And it applies to me and I am focusing that all works for good. Including depression. Somewhere in depression there is a prize for me and others. 

So, I choose to not wallow in it; because the prize is not found in wallowing. No, that is where death lies.

There's good in it, somewhere.

The prize is in finding the works for good. And maybe it is in doing the works that the real good is found: the actual act, and not the outcome.

Depressions are marks that become wells. Wells that can hold weight and water. 

I want my wells to be satisfying. For others to drink from the wells and be stronger, not hindered. For my wells to actually hold something and not be bone dry: would that not be worse than bitter waters? At least with bitter waters you know to stay away... but with empty, there is no indication, there is simply a well.

Come on in, the water's fine.

I want the easy. I want the cured. I want the smooth surface.

But that is not me. 

I am Heidi: wife, mother, friend, sister, homebody, writer, reader, runner, needy, road tripper, student, hopeful, haunted, needed, tenacious... and there's so much more to me than a list even. 

And there is so much more to you, too. 

You are more than a list. More than a name. You are more than a body.

You are enough. You are plenty.

And what could be more than that? What could be more than enough; more than plenty?

Today I just need enough. Today my plenty is enough.

"We both have gardens of songs and maybe it's okay / that I am speechless because I picked you this bouquet."

Ani DiFranco