Yesterday I dug out the first usable compost from our compost heap. It may look run of the mill to you, but to me it was a revelation.
Anyhow, it’s something to be out and working in the garden: it’s invigorating, sustaining and therapeutic. And I’ve needed a bit of therapy. In fact, I’ve started to develop a theory about last year’s perpetual rain – that it was at least partly to blame for my descent into depression.
I grant you, blaming the weather for depression is probably stretching credibility. But I would go so far as to say that overcast skies that made a summer evening look like something close to night don’t lighten a dark mood. And lacking the ability to walk across my lawn barefoot or pull up my own veg robbed me of one of my chief ways of slinking away from anything getting on top of me.
Anyhow, I’ve just this hour left my last psychotherapy session and am now officially antidepressant and psychotherapist free.
Those two were crutches really: essential to my continuing ability to hobble on, but then (once I’d regained my mobility) a hindrance and a nuisance in themselves. So I’m glad to be rid of them, though I owe them both a debt.
I should really be invoking some kind of compost-based metaphor here, but what the hell, what really marks my exit from depression is the ability to find joy in small things again, so no metaphors, just plain compost and, here, our first ever asparagus crop.