My great-grandfather said that when laziness struck the bone, it was fatal. I have often wondered, as I struggle with making sense of my daily existence, if what he was talking about was really depression.

Depression isn’t necessarily born of sorrow, although it can be. It doesn’t really seem to have a rhyme or reason, and can strike in the midst of success, bringing triumph to a disastrous low. It lays waste to accomplishment that has gone before.

But wallowing in the Slough of Despond doesn’t get us through and up the other side to more solid ground. It just gets us wet and mucky, and let’s us sink deeper into the shifting ground. The choice is simple: get out or drown.

So upward we slog, dripping unpaid bills, unfinished work, good intentions and chores too often shirked, to stand on the solid rock of bitter reality.  Grandpa had another saying: “No Worky, no Eaty.”  That is the stick that drives, but where is the bloody carrot?

I need joy. I need happiness and light. Does it lie on the other side of Mount Dun? Well, better to strive than to stand here on stony ground. Best get to scattering my cliches in a more profitable venue.