Depression doesn’t have a he-he or ha-ha in it.  I know I’ve battled it for years.  Now that I’m trapped as a result of surgery, I’ve found a cure and it’s “a good deal.”

Since January I’ve been in an even deeper  trough.  Back pain and a fear of surgery not working can do that to a person.  I’ve wanted to escape, to be numb, or to sleep.  Problem is I’ve been a severe insomniac for at  least  thirty-five years.  Saying “I want to sleep” does nothing in getting one there.

First tactic that didn’t work was “go to a happy place,”  think “happy thoughts.”  Didn’t work.  I felt “happier” drinking a Sonic diet Coke from “Happy Hour” than I did with “happy” thought therapy.

Tactic two was chiding myself.  Only someone totally worthless like you would face such trivial problems with bitterness, recrimination, guilt, and self-pity.  Think how much worse you could be.  Think of all the people in the world that have real problelms.  Then I’d think about that and sink even deeper.  Poor people and animals of  the world, starving, diseased, war-torn, broken by cruelty, what hope do they have?

Tactic three led to list-making of all the blessings I have.  Believe me, I have plenty, but I soured even during list-making.

This is praise for Caleb and Linda Pirtle.   Blatant, self-serving, and free.  

 I started reading Jory Sherman’s blogs, not just once, but every time that sinking, dark cloud engulfed me.  The serenity of silence and the glistening of his imagery uplifts.

 “…vanish in the mist of time.”

“…dawn susurrane of a breeze”

“…snowy hills garbed in soft white fur…

“…the pond pulses wavelets that are like the silent sobs of Osage women mourning the loss of their children from centuries ago.”

Any of his blogs about the beauty, the stillness, and the solitude he finds in the Ozarks floats across my mind and spirit.  I am thankful.  I can luxuriate in his poetic prose and relive my appreciation of nature.

Gerald Crawford’s photography affects me similarly.  His simple and direct language illuminates how his photographic eye captures an image.  I reach again and live a peace by looking at  The Rain, the Cathedral and Mother Grace and Where Time Stands Still. 

I appreciate a wit.  I married one.  I almost worship John’s quick turn of a phrase.  His sharp analogies.  His photographic eye.

But if ever a wit walked the earth, it surely must be Caleb Pirtle.  He sparks as a writer, igniting the reader’s curiosity.  The reader responds. His next sentence, a gentle response, leads the reader on an exquisite path.  He is the perfect responder.  Quiet, clean, insightful,  instructive, and funny off-the-wall.

Thank you, fellows.  You’ve become the best therapy I could have.

What “a good deal” I’ve found.