I've just been stood at the kitchen sink, looking out of the window. A wren flew into the garden, hopping about, long tail bobbing up and down; but it flew off as soon as I stepped outside.
The windows at the rear of our house look out across open space: the rugby pitches immediately behind us, and the hill of Shirecliffe/Parkwood Springs - part municipal rubbish tip, part rich (though unofficial) nature reserve - rising beyond. And between the two, a line of tall trees on the other edge of the park. I love looking at those trees, framed by the sky; usually, clouds. The back-drop is always changing - just now, the sky was a very light eggshell blue; it still is, but indigo clouds are moving in; fluffy in their advance guard, but with a thick blanket following on their heels. My favourite view is when there is a thick bank of very dark grey cloud behind the trees, and bright sunlight directly overhead, which casts an orange-gold glow on the trees. But it only happens when there is dark clouds and bright light together.
Right now I'm feeling fairly down about certain, work-related, things. But depression (in this particular case, I'm just feeling depressed, which is not the same thing as depression at all; but I've been there in the past) is not the same as a lack of hope (plenty of people live without what they would call hope, but aren't depressed). Feeling depressed about a situation simply acknowledges that the situation isn't very good; or sometimes, is very bad. But in that, there can still be hope - hope of a saviour who can lift you high enough to see beyond the present into a future. Not that the present changes (after all, you don't hope for something you already have); nor that you are saved from any future depressing situations or circumstances; but that in each one as they arise we can be lifted; that light can fall that creates something beautiful, that wouldn't be there if the clouds were simply blown away immediately. And that might not be enough for everyone, but it is for me.