I’m not sure if it’s depression I’ve got, or just disappointment or grief. Whatever it is, it makes getting up even harder work than it usually is. It is also the reason I only swam half the lengths I usually do on Monday, and the cause of my sudden inadequacy at making conversation. The days can be tidal: one minute calm, the next minute waves of blackness, a sense of drowning.

But resilient life goes on, and light never ceases to break through the darkness.

A favourite Josh Garrels song of mine goes like this:

its going to be alright

turn around and let back in the light

and joy will come

like a bird in the morning sun

and all will be made well once again

I’m guessing that a lot of people can relate to the grief stuff. A lot of people know the pain of loss. As much as it affects us all in different ways I would think that it is not uncommon to feel that weight of depression. Grief is part of being human, after all. But so is the light stuff.

I see in my friends many stories of loss and grief but also stories of light, colour and joy.

When my thoughts turn black, I need to pour myself a glass of something or take myself to the beach or look (and I mean, really look) into my husband’s eyes. I need to glance at the flowers on the table or watch the child I work with laughing or feel the grass under my feet. I need to turn around and let back in the light. Yeah, if that’s what it takes, I need to get out in the garden at dawn and see with my own eyes the sureness of the morning, the birds that do come, true to habit, to sing from the trees into the mist as the sun burns it away.

I need, more than ever, to count the Small Things, the Light Things.

Things like the tiny blue tit in her nest, looking up at the children who found her in the woods at school.

Things like the glass of cold white wine and the evening sky.

Things like the dog curled on my lap, the favourite films re-watched, the familiar lines of hope for times of despair.

Things like the yellow roses, the smell of a book, the softness of Spring rain.

Things like bluebells and white wild garlic under canopies of green.

Things like singing songs, making plans and telling jokes.

Things like clean sheets and open windows.

These are the simple, beautifully arresting things that are interrupting my darkness at the moment.

What are your Small Things this week?