First Snow of the Season

As I drank my Earl Grey this morning, I watched a cold drizzle turn to light snowfall. Now, just about 1 pm, a bit more than half an inch has accumulated on the stones surrounding the fish pond. The paving stones round the pond are treacherously slick, as one would expect. Still, the fish must be fed. I missed yesterday's feeding, so they were quite ravenous just now, devouring the bits of dried and ground up insect as they hit the pond's surface.

I don't know how long I stood watching as they fed, but it was long enough that I'm chilled to the bone and my sweatshirt is soaked through. I can't even say why I stayed so long. I certainly wasn't engrossed in the feeding frenzy, nor even the quiet beauty of snow dusted on rock and evergreen. But there I stood, reluctant to leave and yet not really wanting to stay.

One might say that's metaphoric of my life at present.

I know that I am horribly depressed. The temptation is to stop the medications, as they are outrageously expensive–"no generic equivalent"–and don't seem to be helping a bloody bit. Then I think, but what if I weren't taking them? How much worse off would I be? And the therapy sessions are a disaster. Group is dominated by two thirty- or forty-something women who seem determined that no one shall be more depressed than they. It would be comical were it not so very sad. The monthly (thanks for naught, Blue Cross) private sessions are more productive, but nevertheless have helped only little. Still, little is better than none, eh?

The snow has begun to fall harder now. Perhaps we will get the predicted three inches, after all. It has begun accumulating on the street and drive, blanketing unraked leaves in my garden and disguising the weeds left unpulled in my flower beds. It's quite lovely, actually. Would that I could but enjoy it.