I have not had the desire to write for a very long time. Life on the farm continues in its peaceful way: we’ve moved from the greys and browns of early Spring, to the green lushness of present day Summer. We’ve had scorchingly hot days, cool and mellow days, and days of torrential rain and lashing wind. No matter what the weather is, the farm retains its transcendent beauty. Likewise, farm work also continues. We added two Angora goats, and lost all our chickens, had the sheep sheared, and continued attempting to train Bowie. Cat came down with a virus and we almost lost him; Cat rebounded and returned to his nighttime adventures out in the woods and pastures. The new barn cats settled in, and we are still working on evicting the pigeons in the hayloft. Raised beds were built, seeds were planted and tended to, and now comes the glorious harvest and celebration of past work done. All of the above percolated away; I was busy, busy, busy. But, I was also sinking into a period of blackness. I wasn’t entirely sure why I felt this way, day after day, but that’s what I felt. And, just as depression tends to build slowly, the blackness descending bit by bit, extinguishing light or any sense of light, so it lifts bit by bit. Small moments of doing and grace, dropping here and there without any prompting, slowly brought me back from the gloom. This poem has been tucked into my poetry folder for the longest time, and I found it again while searching for another poem, but I thought it expressed the journey I’d been on perfectly: Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale by Dan Albergotti
Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days. Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals. Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices. Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you. Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart. Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope, where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all the things you did and could have done. Remember treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.