Even shielded from news most of the day because of the internet ban at work, it’s impossible to avoid all awareness of an earth-turned-inferno and humanity’s own seeming desire to immolate itself in war. Sometimes it’s hard not to wonder, “What’s the point?”
But the minute I start asking that question, I know it’s not the news. It’s me.
Hammering out a few words each day has seemed to be a Herculean task, and, until last night, I hadn’t touched a canvas in months. I know that, even though in some cases, things really are that bad for some of the world, right now, depression is warping the lens of my mind’s eye.
Sometimes depression is like seeing through a fog, but there are times when it is like living with a lens stopped down to the smallest aperture. It throws everything into sharp, extreme focus. There are no soft edges. There is no cropping out ugly details that make the world seem like an overflowing landfill that hardly needs anymore pointless paintings or posts.
And I know it’s not the world, it’s me – at the moment.
I like to think the depression isn’t who I am, but it’s been with me, off and on, since I could crawl. It’s at least as much a part of me as being near-sighted, and there are even times I’m glad for the hyper focus (this isn’t one of them).
I was driving home tonight, still struggling for what to paint or draw. I knew my head needs me to but couldn’t reconcile my need with the resources it would use, the waste it might generate, or the pointlessness of making anything.
Usually Facebook is the opposite of an anti-depressant, so it was against my better judgement (already shaky this week) that I launched it on my phone when I got home and sat down to decompress. The first photo that hit my feed, however, was a screenshot of a September tweet from Dan Rather that went like this:
“Somewhere, amid the darkness, a painter measures a canvas, a poets tests a line aloud, a songwriter brings a melody into tune. Art inspires, provokes thought, reflects beauty and pain. I seek it out even more in these times. And, in doing so, I find hope in the human spirit.”
It was one answer to a question I ask all the time – especially when my focus is sharp but corrupted .
Is art selfish?
I know art is therapy – a softening of the lens. When continents really are on fire, when children are living in prisons and adults are making more misery from war, however, I hope for it to be a light in the darkness. For tonight, the hope is enough to let some softness into my view.
Poem – Stopping Down
I stopped all the way down
And now my field is deep,
Focused and sharp,
Too treacherous to roam.
1 thought on “It’s Not Them”
SO THERE WINTER
The century-old radiator puffs angrily
and the distant scrape-scrape
of a shovel against snow
reminds me that winter hangs
like a Titanic-sized iceberg over my bed
sending me back down
into the Safe House
of every blanket and pillow I won.
Go away January
and take February with you too.
no matter how persistent your call
I’m not coming out
til the robins sing: “All clear”
It is 88 degrees in SaoPaola today.
I wonder if I can get to the airport from here.