It was June, but I slid my feet silently into wool socks. I threw on a sweatshirt and a light jacket, even a winter hat. In early summer, northern Maine is still quite cold, especially pre-dawn. I grabbed my camera, backpack, and tripod, strapped my headlamp on, and ate an overly ripe banana. 

Upon stepping out the door, I met the dense gray morning dark. I wondered about the moose, bear, deer, coyotes, and spiders. Deep breath. I started forward. (Thankfully, I had not yet developed my deep phobia of bats.)

I was staying at the Maine Huts and Trails Hut on Flagstaff Lake with my young family. One glorious week of hiking, reading, eating. Resting. Being. Just my husband, two boys and I. I was determined to take in Birch Point, a narrow strip of land inhabited by birch trees that juts out into the lake, at every segment of the day —today was sunrise. 

My pace on the quick hike out of the woods to the edge of the lake reflected my fraying nerves. I’m an outdoors girl, but being alone—and I mean totally humanly alone—in the woods in the dark reminds me of how out-of-control I really am. It’s unnerving to submit to the dark.

My body shivered and demanded sleep. My brain overrode it and said, “This will be worth it.”

I got to the edge —still dense gray, still nothing worthy of my camera’s shutter. I expanded the tripod, set up the camera, fiddled with settings, and sat down to wait.

The water lapped softly, its intensity growing slightly as the world shifted from dark to day. The birds began their great crescendo, begging for the day to begin anew. 

As I sat there, I watched the beauty emerge. It was blue.

The water was a deep admiral hue; the sky went from iris to periwinkle. The birches’ bark was tinted slate and clothed in leaves of teal. The Bigelow range emerged on the far horizon, a pure shade of cobalt blue.

The birds were on surround sound — they were taking note, longing for the sun, singing it to the horizon.

This was blue hour.

Everyday, the day goes blue. Twice. I don’t usually notice.

As a photographer, I often seek the golden hour, the first and last hour of sun, for the most stunning scenes; but right before and right after, lies the blue.

I sat there in soul silence, just taking in the sight. I realized that this moment offered something too. The shadows were illuminated just enough, the highlights not blown out. The blue was actually a unifying effect, reducing contrast. The whole scene was easily captured in one exposure. 

The sun came on the horizon, touching the tip of the mountain first. It was a pure golden light. Every few seconds, the sun chased down the mountainside, taking its daily descent. Clouds warmed. The mountain was a nugget of pure gold. The far-shore trees lit up. The birch trees behind me illuminated. The sun moved across the landscape, lightshow on display.

Light changes everything. Continuously.

Other things changed too. The serene, still, quiet lake, picked up the pace, lapping loudly, waves ruining the sublime reflection. The birds quieted down; they were done with their dawn song. And like their previous longing, suddenly my soul missed something — the blue. I missed the blue.

The gold was nice, but fleeting. It gave way to ordinary. But the blue — it did something more. 

Blue hour didn’t wow me, didn’t cause me to gasp. It caused me to hold my breath, to wait, to long. And waiting heightened my scene and my senses. I heard a well-orchestrated song. I felt the Earth’s tilt pause, like a deep breath, before it moved into the sun again. I saw the water – known for its unpredictable calamity – in perfect rest, still as a sleeping baby.

The night before, I witnessed the sunset — fire shades on the horizon. This morning I witnessed the sunrise — golden rays moving in. But just before — blue shades of stillness. It was just as beautiful and far more profound.

How many times do I dismiss the blue by begging for the sun to emerge? Gold is far more appealing. Warmth, far more acceptable.  But maybe I’m a bird gifted with a song to beg in the blue.

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Maybe some of us are made for the golden hour or even high-noon sun, but maybe some of us are nocturnal in nature. 

Something about serenity, silence, solitude — these things call to me. Subtleness solicits me at least as much as contrast. Sometimes I think I like the possibility of light as much as light itself, like hope only manifests in me in a state of longing. 

Letting my eyes writhe in the agony of blinding sunlight seems healthy and refreshing at times; but so does can’t-see-my-own-hands darkness and all the shades in between. 

Sometimes I think I was made for the blue, like my eyes have been adjusted and I can see the beauty in it. Maybe my soul was even crafted to find some solace in it. I can handle that tension — where light isn’t apparent, but darkness doesn’t reign. That’s the pinnacle where I perch. That’s the place I find my voice.

Depression is dark. There’s no denying that. But most of the time, it’s more blue than black. I don’t think we’re made to live in the dark, but aren’t we made to live in longing for the light?

In the blue of depression, there’s stillness. If we lean into it, there’s rest. There’s space to breathe, beauty to behold.

There’s a crescendo, a building of desperation, a begging for something new, fresh, light and airy. They say depression is anger aimed inward. I think it’s more of a longing with an intensity most run from, but maybe the way through is a dogged begging for light, for hope, for movement. Maybe we just need to sing louder and louder until light emerges.

The gift of depression is eyes to see the shadows. In a world obsessed with bright, easy, happy, glittery — we need people like prophets of old who see the dark, who hold it in tension. Hold the dark and the light — all combined in one exposure. 

For some of us, the way through depression is to gaze. To see. To celebrate. To hope. To sing. And to do all this in the dark, before the light ever emerges. Because all things come around eventually. The earth is always in rotation. Light will arrive on the horizon. And light will change everything. Continuously.

Perhaps the absence of light is part of that, too. To long for the dawn is to have hope, but to wait for dawn is to see something rare, and dare I say, beautiful. 

If I am to be a beggar in the blue, so be it. It can be lonely. Isolating. Painful. Depressing. But it is also a gift of beauty, clarity, stillness. It’s a gift to see what others skip over. It’s a truth made to behold. 

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As I sat there on the edge of the lake, the sky clouding back in, the waves frothing over, and the wind pushing through, I felt encouraged. Not because I was returning to my husband and children in the hut without my depression, but because I was reminded of the gritty hope of leaning in, of showing up, of staring at the shadows only seen when highlights are muted. 

I can beg in the blue. I can sit on this perch. I can find my voice. I will share my song, louder and louder, until the sun breaks through.

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A Note: In this particular piece, I’m writing of a depression that is a dull backdrop to everyday life. In that form, I think depression can be befriended and gleaned from. Not all depression is this though, and not all depression should be befriended or endured. It’s okay for your crescendo to be a cry for necessary help.