Robertson Davies, the Canadian novelist, was one of my favorite writers. He wrote sometimes of The Black Dog that came to visit him from time to time and lay down by his side. The Black Dog came when he wished and left when he was ready, he was never invited, he could not be forced to leave. It was some time before I realized The Black Dog was the awful depression that Davies suffered from for much of his life.
I was shocked to read a writer so honest and authentic, and I resolved to be authentic too. Depression is a very rough thing and I do not suffer from it, my mental illness has taken very different forms, although I sometimes feel that my own Black Dog has come to enter my life. I thank Davies for showing me the wisdom of being strong and standing in my truth and saying to the world, this is where I am right now, it is all right for me to say so. In my family, as in many others, these were not things that were ever spoken of, they were the spirits and ghosts that haunted our home but had no voice or name.
My Black Dog has been here for a week or so, and perhaps to escape the cold, he seems to be hanging around. This afternoon Maria crashed a bit and then we both laughed and agreed we both couldn’t crash at the same time, it would just be too depressing and somebody would come and throw a net over us, and who would care for all of these animals? I have learned a few things about how to deal with his visits. I think i understand the triggers now, the things that bring back the old fear and shame and feeling of worthlessness and despair.
– I acknowledge what I am feeling I write about it on my blog, My Mother, the source and repository of so much of my creativity.
– I avoid speaking poorly of my life. A spiritual teacher cautioned me to never speak poorly of my life, it is precious and unique, the only one I will ever be given. Do not shame it, he warmed, by speaking ill of it, and I have learned not to do that.
– I do not care for old people’s talk. I understand where I am in life, but I do not say things like “at a certain age,” “at my age,” “at our age” things are difficult. In my life, there have been difficulties at every age, many much worse than my difficulties now. Age is it’s own thing, it is what it is, life is something else, and I do not blame my age when I suffer or struggle. People of all ages struggle.
– I meditate twice as much. I close my eyes and put my earphones on and listen to Van Morrison or Aretha Franklin or The Blind Boys of Alabama or the Dixie Chicks or Hilary Hahn.
– I think of the things I love, not the things I don’t. I think of the things I have, not the things I have lost. I make a note to set out early in the morning with my camera, and be a Johnny Appleseed for beauty, light, creativity and encouragement. I get many things wrong and have made so many mistakes, but that, at least, I think I got right.
I remember once when Maria was having such a hard time, she was beating herself up for not making more things, earning more money, doing more. And I remember taking her hand and sitting down with her and I said, “what do you want? What do really want in life? Is it money, security, fame?”
She looked at me for the longest time, and then she said, “I want what I have, I want to be here, with you, doing my art, in this place, with my friends, my donkeys, my dogs. In my studio. I have what I want,” she said, and she went off and made some beautiful things.
And this is what I tell myself when I get said, when I am discouraged, when the intrusions, distractions and difficulties of the world threaten to crash over me like a giant wave on an ocean beach. In my silence, on my walks, through my viewfinder, I ask myself this: “What do you want?”
And I know the answer but I say it out loud and I write it, because that is how I process these things, I use my head as well as my heart, sometimes too much of one and not enough of the other. I want what I have. I want to be here, with the person I share my life with, doing my writing, taking my photos, writing on my blog, loving my friends, living with my animals, lighting the creative spark when I find a dry match. I have everything I have ever really wanted, and I give thanks for that. And that is the path back, about the time the Black Dog yawns, stretches, gets up, puts his nose in the air and heads for the door.
