I envy those who can write incessantly on their blogs.
Weeks, months can pass for me when I feel I have absolutely nothing to say. Nothing of significance. Nothing to indicate the slightest growth in thinking or seeing. Nothing, I feel worth giving to the larger world. But am I right to feel this way? Perhaps it is the little things, the seemingly insignificant, the unremarkable that are the real building blocks of life. The things to appreciate and value.
I read that those who undergo major depression find it an immense challenge just to put food in their mouth or take a shower. When I am depressed, I can't find the strength to get up to go to work. To open a book to read. Or even say hello to a friend walking by. There is barely a will to go on living - only the compulsion of self-preservation to keep me going. Beset with such recurrent dips, even the slightest moments of relative freedom from unexplained sadness is great joy to me.
The slightest things.
To be able to think one's thoughts uninterrupted by anxiety attacks for the Obsessive-Compulsive. The taste of walking down the street freely for the political prisoner. Simplest things that we take foregranted if we had not first lost them. Such is the irony of living - we only treasure the things we have lost, and what we have we take foregranted and waste.
Sometimes the only thing to do is to look for the things of grace, the gifts of life and to summon all of one's soul to love it and cherish it. Even in its absence.