Reports from possibly mythical psychiatrists vary. The common belief is that Christmas makes some folks so depressed that more suicides take place during the holidays and more people complain to their doctors. Other studies have said this isn't true.

I would expect if you had a bad life, or just too many high expectations of Christmas because of advertising, the holidays might make you suicidal. Or if you were snowed in alone, for weeks, as so many of our pioneer ancestors were, life might seem too bleak to go on.

But if I were to contemplate suicide, I'd probably do it on a day like today. If there is anything more depressing in regular, everyday weather, it's a winter day of steady, relentless, cold rain. This is where folks usually bleat "Sure glad it wasn't snow." And maybe in the South you can't blame 'em, because lurking under that snow is usually ice.

But snow, even that which much be shoveled, turns the world into magic. Adults become kids again, snowballs fly, it's brisk and chill and still--the whole world has an unearthly hush as the blanket of snow absorbs sound. There's almost a quiet chiming in the air as if the echoes of tiny sleighbells. Ugliness is blanketed with sparkling white, shadows turn blue and silver instead of gloomy black. The outdoors calls you to go play, slide back the years and slide downhill, make snow angels, and roll to your feet and start all over again.

But dark winter skies and endless rain--cold, wet rain burrowing under your collar, up your sleeves, down your neck. Where snow brushes off, this creeps deep into your hat, your coat, your shoes, your skin, your bones...your soul. You long for fires and blankets and hot soup, and even wrapped up and sipping broth can't get the chill out of your heart.

----------------------------------------------------------------
. . . . . noted and logged by Linda at 5:58:00 PM

Comments: Post a Comment