It was never my intent to take a season-long sabbatical. I planned to hike, write and settle into my long-sought stability. All I managed was deeper intimacy with my beloved woods. Sometimes the forest was my only refuge from the dizzying mood swings that disrupted any momentary balance I accidentally achieved. 
Adding to that angst was my seeming inability to string even a few words together with any clarity or eloquence. My writing withered, and my soul with it. Add to that the ballistic impossibility of communicating my heart-felt sense of defeat with my hubby, who is the most annoyingly optimistic person I have ever known. To him, the notion of depression is as graspable as a keen understanding of giving birth. 
Silence seemed the better part of valor. Not that it was all a disappointment. I learned the magic of gadgets. I got myself a cell phone that takes great pictures, which I use more for the latter than I do for the former. Thus, was I able to capture some of the magic of my woods.It is tiring, though. This eternal juggling act. The existential hypocrisy that comes from coaching others that anything is possible for anyone ~ except for me. 
But seasons turn and so do frames of mind. On many levels, I remain paralyzed by uncertainty, as "the next step" tends to shift like quicksand. I am a little more settled, though. Winter does tend to ground the soul. Perhaps I will find answers in the dark days that weren't apparent in the light. Until then, I remain . . . 
Kitty R. Connell
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