Some days, I may have walked past this too. I wonder what it is that causes us to stop and really look? What is it that makes us say "Ahh" and provides the magic that compels us to take a photo, or write a poem, or paint a picture? What happens to us if we go through life without experiencing that compulsion, or if it fades away? Vanishes? What then?
I have been struggling a bit with depression lately. It can be a bit like having a head full of cotton wool, and eyes covered by something that filters out the magic and delight of what we see. It is like going through life as an observer only, not a participant.
I did some reading years ago about autism, no doubt everything has changed now, but I was interested to read that it was believed that autism was due to the mind becoming overloaded, and that the condition tended to manifest itself just after a child begins to speak. With the acquisition of language there is a flood of new stimuli, the world suddenly becomes a larger, more complex place, old boundaries tumble, and information swooshes into the young mind at a phenomenal rate. Some minds cannot cope. A fuse blows, the light dims, and the child withdraws.
Maybe with depression the mind is shutting down to some extent, because life is perceived as being too difficult, the mountains unclimbable, the rivers too swift to cross.
One thing that has been of great help to me through this has been my weekly physiotherapy appointment. I realise that physiotherapy is mostly concerned with the body, but the half hour sessions have been good for the mind too. Having someone "external" to visit, who could objectively measure physical progress week by week, is enormously valuable. When you are caught up with an injury, it is impossible to really measure your own progress. I also greatly appreciate being able to say how things are for me, and be listened to and gently encouraged.
I do a 2 kilometre walk most days now, and am starting to find that really comfortable. My next challenge is a gradual return to the studio. I managed an hour in the studio last Friday, and I hope to do a little there each day from now on.
This photo of the lagoon on a sunny day, is so different to the photo that is above it. They are the same place, this one in sunlight, the other under a thick, grey sky, as the song says;
"What a difference a day makes
Twenty-four little hours
Brought the sun and the flowers
Where there used to be rain"
I am sorry the blog dried up. It is kind of you to have stayed in touch and to have written in to ask how things were.