I had an insight yesterday. Not headline-making, just personal. On a minuscule scale, I experienced the rather well documented theory that being active helps to combat depression. Who really knows what brings on a ‘funk’ but my downer may have sprung from a day book-ended by doctor’s visits, first for me and later in the afternoon, my daughter. I had rare hours to myself for much of the afternoon and made the mistake of spending an inordinate amount of time thinking and getting anxious about the fact that I have decided to have my ovaries out at the end of September. Precautionary. Something not too suspicious looking, but still something, is on one of them — and rather than go through a battery of tests — I blithely said, “just take ’em out!” Then I started reading (ah the danger of the internet!) about the surgery and recovery time and got, well… depressed. It crept up on me, heavy feelings turning into walls of gloom I couldn’t quite see over. Rather, this doom crept out of me like a miserable, hibernating sloth that’s been hiding away within me like a miserable parasite just waiting for the moment to return. And then, by the skin of my teeth, I managed to pull myself out of paralysis. Grabbing some clippers, I forced myself to get up and make the rounds in my very overgrown yard. August isn’t much for flowers but I managed to find these 
and more importantly, I chased the threatening gloom away by participating in, paying attention to and moving in nature. And it started by getting my ass out of the chair.