Just a stones throw down our terracotta red dirt road is an old shell of a home. The land owners have built a new house to rear of their acreage but saw fit to leave this abandon bungalow for those of us who engage in pondering. The old home is full of images and memories of another time. The outside is a muted shade of gold with vines growing all around and even inside out.  The busted window panes allow the light from the north, east and west and south to flood the center of the floor with warmth from all directions. The roof is chipping away and has patches of moss here and there.

I pause ever so often to look at the house and imagine the experiences of the old farm family that resided inside. The gate is locked so they can let their cattle graze throughout the pasture. My shyness keeps me from approaching the homeowners to ask for a closer look at the old house. For now I remain content to look from the road. It may also be that I’m not ready to let go of my idealized version of the house for fear that the vines are really poison ivy and that the inside of the house is smelly and decayed.

It would be easy to see this as a run down shack in need of demolition. But as I get older I identify with these structures and ponder the history they provide. I love how their function has long since faded away but the crusty old dwelling remains.  The house reminds me of my experience with depression when I was only the slight image of a vacant shell. I would find myself numb and absent of feelings and thoughts with the inside of me decaying and smelly. There were no warm inviting images of those days but only a whimpering structure with the lights turned off.

As for now, the lights are turned on and my voice is strong. I have a healthy respect for the power of depression and keep a daily vigil to watch my footsteps so I will not fall back into the desperate well of darkness. How pleased I am that I can find the words to describe what it is like to be depressed but remain in this very moment of wellness.