only

it's only november. and already i am depressed, exhausted, sick, tired and ready for summer. can't believe there is still december, january, february, march and (if last year's luck holds out) april to go before the sunshine, the warmth, the light. bah. am recovering from third flu in a row. the farm bankrupcy situation is still up in the air, unlike the gorgeous autumn leaves, which lie in sad dried up heaps on our street, brown and dejected, sneakily concealing dog diarrhea and other surprises. bah. i managed to miss autumn, my favourite season. it simply passed me by.

all right, this is depression. barbara has a song about it. here (with subtitles in catalan, no less...).

anyway, back to the usual medication: yoga. fresh air. movement. writing. dancing. hugging favourite small people. colour therapy.
(PS. for those whose french is as good as my catalan, i have taken the freedom to translate:

It sends no warning, it simply arrives
It’s coming from far away
It has been shuffling from shore to shore
With its sulky face
And then one morning, as you wake up
It’s almost nothing
But it’s there, making you sleepy
In the small of your back

The ache of living
The ache of living
That you must keep on living
Whatever living may cost

You can wear it on your shoulder
or as a jewel on the hand
As a flower in your buttonhole
Or just on the tip of your breast
It’s not necessarily misery
It’s not Valmy, it’s not Verdun
But it’s tears in the corner of your eyes
At the thought of the day that dies, at the thought of the day to come

The ache of living
The ache of living
That you must keep on living
Whatever living may cost

Whether you come from Rome or America
Whether you come from London or Peking
From Egypt or Africa
Or from the Porte Saint-Martin
We all make the same prayer
We all walk the same road
How long it is, the road, if you’re walking
With that ache in the small of your back

No matter that they try to understand us
Those who come to us with naked hands
We no longer want to hear them
We cannot, we are all spent
And alone in the silence
Of a night that knows no end
Suddenly we think of them
Of those who did not return...

...From the ache of living
Their ache of living
That they had to keep on living
Whatever living may cost

...And without warning, it arrives
It’s coming from far away
It has been walking from shore to shore
With a smile on its lips
And then one morning, as you wake up
It’s almost nothing
But it’s there, filling you with wonder
In the small of your back

The joy of living
The joy of living
Oh, come and live it
Your joy of living...)