When doing my research for my master's thesis, I read Andrew Solomon's magnificent work, "Noonday Demon". His study of the research on depression discussed how more people who follow through on suicide do so not in the dark of winter, but in the blossom of spring. The thinking is that if you are depressed during the winter -- those dark and dreary months -- you justify your melancholy to the time of year, holding on until spring arrives. But if you stay depressed during the spring months, then your chances of committing suicide dramatically increase. In other words, if the warmer weather, the longer days, and the sheer brightness of the world cannot lift you out of your depression, nothing will.

He went on to talk about how the most dangerous time for him during his depression wasn't when he couldn't get out of bed, but when he was slightly (ever so) motivated to face his depression and get help. Just as he was making the upward turn from his life on the bottom, he found himself more likely to think about killing himself, now that he was more motivated by the drugs and by the therapy.

I thought about this yesterday on my ride home from work. It was 62 degrees (warm for this time of year), the sun was burning a hole in the blue sky, and the smell of spring made my eyes water and my nostrils swell.

I am not depressed, I thought to myself, glad that spring had lifted my spirits, fueled my legs with enough energy to tackle the bigger hill home.

During the winter months I worry that my depression from a few years back will continue. I take a daily inventory...is this depression or is this
A) exhaustion?
B) a lack of daylight?
C) a struggle though manageable?
D) the lack of exercise?
E) all of the above?

Once you've experienced depression, I don't think it ever leaves you fully. It hangs around.
For me, it floats above my right shoulder.
It hums continuously.
It smiles and smirks.
It taps its fingers and checks its watch.
A demon, as Solomon named it.

And the stuggle, the mighty struggle is daily, hourly to
A) ignore it
B) smile back at it
C) turn up my MP3 player
D) sleep with my back to it
E) all of the above

But the true test for me is when March rolls around, the month I dread more than others because it's long and wet and not quite warm enough, not quite sweet enough and full of taunts and teases... the true test is can I make it through to really be surprised and pleased about the arrival of April?

If, by chance, April were to roll around and I found myself feeling dismal and dark, weighted and pasty, I'd know that the depression usually floating on my right shoulder was now inside of me, humming, smirking, tapping the seconds against my brittle bones.

But yesterday, I sighed knowing I'd won...at least for this spring.

The air was rich with cut grass, the warmth of blossoms, and something unidentifiable but as comforting as cookies baking on a summer evening or the smell of a puppie's ears.

I walked Chester when I got home. He was bouncy, actually bouncy, hopping in that hobby horse way that he always used to do when excited to see me, excited to get dinner, excited to be leashed up, excited to leave his mark on every branch, every corner.

His demon stayed at bay, too.

Even when, halfway through our walk, it started to rain...big drops of spring and still 60 degrees...he smiled and lead the way up the hill, past the purple lilacs and flowering cherry trees.

Today, there is still sun, though the clouds are moving across a white sky. Chester is asleep on his rug in the kitchen. He is wobbly today, uncertain about why I am home, he is drowsy and drugged. His demon has returned, tapping at his shoulder.

I want to think it's a dance, but even that analogy seems inadequate. It's tidal, moving in and out, back and forth, pulled by something more familiar than a fat moon or the earth's rotation. As the time draw nears, Chester's and even mine, the hours between high and low tides grows shorter. There are days when he is as alive as the creatures happily floating in the highest waters, and then as weak and precarious as those same critters exposed by the waters drawn back by the spring moon.

And every moment we are changed, ever so slightly...water reshaping our shorelines.
Carved.
Formed.
Twisted smooth.
Reformed.
Carved again.
Pulled and tempted.
Resistant.
Surrendered.
Forgiven.