On anticipating a return to my home in Canada, I was flying high after three months of Caribbean sunshine and many, many hours of clothes freedom. I was flying high because I believed that the world back home had changed simply because I had changed.
But it didn’t take long for that euphoria of going home to turn dark. The fact that it was still winter with snow piled up more than a metre in yard and garden with skies that were grey was enough of a change, but couldn’t really explain the descent into a depressive darkness within me. Rather, it was more of a retreat into past that had no bearing on the present. I retreated into a space and place that refused to admit that light existed even though it didn’t feel like it any more. I fell into my own past when hope existed only by thin threads.
Lost in the depression, I refused to allow my skin feel the freedom of being touched by the air, I refused to meditate somehow believing that being naked and meditating would be nothing more than a cruel mockery of reality.
Somehow, through the darkness and depression, a voice and a smile filled with compassion, care and love reached me and pulled me back to the surface of the world. And now, though the snow still lays deep, I find the will to meditate and be clothes free, to dare being more than darkness. Now, I am at home once again, in my home.