The morning, breathless and scented,

lifts up upon my weighted soul and turns gently

with a kiss too soft.

And holding tender, seeks a word

or simple gesture that says things

that will always be left unsaid.

An embrace of a moment where the answers

to what,

remain covered by dried leaves and bits

of things scurrying, into the dark shadows

just beyond my reach.


The Walking Dead…

I was watching The Walking Dead tonight and Michonne who plays a sword wielding Zombie killer, was having a dream about a normal life. Maybe from her past as a flashback or maybe not. She was in a beautiful white kitchen making dinner for a friend and her “lover” Mike . They discuss not staying in camp or going out “there” and Mike says, “Where is the happy ending here? “This isn’t life”. Then asks “whats the answer?”, and his friend replies back, “whats the damn question?!” Michonne tries to ignore the comments and her dream turns nasty when she looks up and sees the two men sitting with there arms hacked off like her “pets”. She screams…

I sat there with my ginger ale, thinking, heres a show about a bunch of people who used to have lives with families, friends, jobs, houses, chores, hobbies, and pets. A show about the loss of everything they thought important and the simple struggle to survive. There have been others who have written about this subject, Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” comes to mind. No zombies but the struggle for survival and the loss of familiarity.

And, without much effort, my inner voice said, “hmmm…Thats depression”. That same loss of the familiar coupled with little if any hope. And I thought about what Mike said “This isn’t life”. As in, the loss of what we all consider the normal experience of happiness through the way we interact with our surroundings, families and friends that we find comfortable and/or meaningful. I mean, imagine taking away everything that you work for everyday? The reason you get up in the morning and there are no other options, no other jobs, no cars, houses or resorts to visit in the winter. Once you remove the trappings of our modern world and the constant way we are taught to achieve this dream at all costs, what’s left? Do you suddenly have no reason to live? Of course not, but it really made me think about our purpose, and how the dissolution in the belief of that purpose can cause disparity. 

What is life? Well, I guess life is what we have since we have a beating heart. Living is a different thing; it’s what we do while our heart beats. When you distill it down, we human beings are all all the same. Our blood is red and our bones are white.  We live, we die.

So whether you live in a beautiful condo with a giant mortgage, an apartment on a small subsidy, or are running around in a post apocalyptic world trying to find a safe place to live, or are inside the walls of your troubled mind, it’s simply survival. 

What makes it bearable, and has the ability to bring us real happiness are the connections to each other that we make along the way. Our need for love and friendship. Everything else means… quite literally, nothing. 

So, where’s your happy ending?

The Three Directions… or Depression, Midlife and Creativity.

New Growth

“My creative world suffered. I pretty much gave up on my chosen career – photography, to sit in a cafe in stunned silence for a very long time trying to make sense of it all.”

I’ve been struggling lately in many different ways. And this is reflected in my blog. What started out as an outlet for my creativity, overtime took on my attempts to grasp meaning in a world that started too make little sense to me. I understood so many posts ago that the blog was going to mean something more than just words and pretty pictures. Something else was driving this. Something I couldn’t grasp. All I knew was I needed to do this. But my first attempts fell short of what it asked for. I was posting little bits and pieces of myself never fully giving of the whole.

What was I so damned afraid of?

Each little bit of myself that I picked up and put out for anyone to see was like removing stones from a large pile. One by one, until I could sense something under all the weight. Something dark, and something light. Warm and yet cold. And very powerful. It scared the crap out of me.

What was below in the spaces and cracks and shadows started to move. I began to realize that I lacked the focused attention needed to free what was there. And in many ways I questioned freeing it at all. I was very depressed, going through an upheaval that started back when I was in my mid forties and coming to a full on crisis by my fiftieth year. My creative world suffered. I pretty much gave up on my chosen career – photography, to sit in a cafe in stunned silence for a very long time trying to make sense of it all.

What you have seen here are attempts to breath life back into myself. To “see” again. In reality, this is a blog about severe depression, and a gut wrenching mid-life crisis. Too much time has passed that I don’t know which came first, and well, it doesn’t really matter anyway.

So in essence, those of you who followed me for my creative endeavours, I hope you stick around. And for those who do, you may gain some insight into the mind of an artist who will continue to struggle greatly. Watching my failures and successes, my struggles and triumphs. Mid life made me re-examine almost every decision I had ever made. Depression took away my hope and my sight. In the empty space that was left, there remained one thing. My inner passion to create.

I know I am not alone in this. We all have our demons. Connection and Creativity and the energy they give, will be what saves me. Fear and isolation has the ability to defeat me. I hope by bringing some clarity into my world through a more open examination and dialogue, will help clear away the fog that I take too much comfort in.

Winters Desire…

Winters cold wind spreads across a field of summer fallow,

as snow falls gently,

softly tapping on shoulders that have bourn so much,

and whisper cold memories of warmer times.

Landing on tongues, as we giggled,

and caught the low January sun through a dappled forest light,

shimmering as it fell on its way

to the dance floor,

the flash of light and the beat of my heart to the rhythms of this one,

true desire.

And in the grey of my voice calling out to this wind,

and the frigid illusions of these now, tepid dreams,

I am unable to move.

And staring out to what, I’m not sure,

hidden by layers of lies, I can only imagine what awaits.

And with this knowing doubt, I am frozen in my own fear.

Feet always moving towards a simple end,

but a mind stationary, and unable to reconcile the truths of where I am…

And more simply,

Grant Waddell

Runaway Train…


Sugar Maker


Moving slowly at first the subtle sway feels soothing as the clack clack of track under steel wheels, begins to form those familiar rhythms that seem so far back in my memory. As if being held by my mother in the maple wood rocking chair so long ago.

And out the window, things that are closest to me blur into shades of brown, light against dark. I focus on the horizon, seeing dreams in the distant haze, but always on the edge,

never closer.


The sway, dangerous and unnerving, brings panic. I look around and see others looking out their glowing laptop windows, heads down, at reruns of Honey Boo-Boo and Keeping up with the Kardashians, hyperlinking to dreams of cars, houses and shoes.

In a trance, on track, to a better life…

And I begin to realize what this really means…

And I want off