Jonny McCambridge: Blue January, the full moon and a red sky

At the risk of sounding confused, the first month of this year feels as if it has passed quickly, but also dragged on. The joyful Christmas memories fade and disappear, slowly but definitely, like a distant ship travelling towards the horizon.

Perhaps it is this tendency to look back rather than forward which partly explains why the month is so often associated with low mood.

During early January, I was asked to take part in a conference discussing mental health. It was explained to me that the timing of the virtual event was deliberate, to be delivered at a time when people may need a message of hope and comfort the most.

It was a sentiment I was sympathetic with. Perhaps it is inevitable that after the high comes the low. The weeks and months of unbroken work and school stretch out in front of us now like the longest of shadows. It is easy to feel that there is little to look forward to.

Then there is the weather. The hard frost layers itself to the windscreen of my car on the black mornings like a ubiquitous shining spider’s web. The bitter cold seemed a lot more bearable in December than it does in January.

There is not so much conversation on the morning school run these days. My son, often bubbling to the point of explosion with boyish enthusiasm and excitement, now sits silent and subdued beside me in the car. I feel guilty, fearing that my own sense of despondency is rubbing off on him.

The working day is a struggle. I make phone calls which people do not answer. The sentences and paragraphs in stories I try to write do not come naturally. Working from home, previously a comfort, has now created a suffocating sense of dreariness. I find myself walking continually with my head down between the kitchen and the living room, as if searching for a diversion.

The hours pass slowly. I look at the clock much too often.

Eventually, it is time to pick up my son from the afterschool club which he attends on weekdays. The drive to pick him up is unremarkable. Or rather, there is no remark I can make about it because I don’t notice anything.

I fetch my son. I am walking back towards the car when I see that he is not beside me. He has stopped a few paces behind and is gazing upwards. I’m a little annoyed at first, anxious to get home again.

‘What are you doing buddy?’

‘It’s the sky daddy. Look at the sky.’

I do so unwillingly at first. Then I see what he is looking at. There are few clouds in the evening air. Instead, a full moon is rising. A perfect orb, a shimmering pale balloon floating with an uncommon silver clarity just above the horizon. I’ve seen many full moons before, but I have to admit that this one is startingly beautiful.

It has captivated my son and we spend several minutes together, staring upwards.

As we drive back home, I notice things which did not capture my attention on the inward journey. The Turkish barber is cutting a customer’s hair in his little shop on the corner. He waves at me as I go past.

Some teenagers are waiting at the bus stop, laughing as they share a story. The greengrocer is moving stock inside his premises as he begins closing up shop for the night.

A large car is attempting a difficult reverse parallel parking manoeuvre into a narrow space in front of me.

‘He’ll never make it in there,’ I mumble. ‘Not enough room.’

When we get back to the house, I’m suddenly aware of jobs which need to be done. I empty the dishwasher and the washing machine. I move the boxes with the Christmas decorations back into the attic, as I’ve been promising my wife that I would do for more than a week.

The following morning, we are again preparing for the school run.

As I pack the school bag, my boy asks me ‘Daddy, can we look at the sky again like we did last night?’

So, we do. This time the day is cloudy. Indeed, the dappled clouds stretch across the horizon like a giant woollen rug which covers everything.

The sun is rising in the east and its colour has bled into the tapestry of cloud. In the low sky, in the spaces I can see between the branches of the distant trees, it appears as a fierce crimson. Higher, there is a blend of softer yellows, oranges and pinks smeared through the clouds, as if the colours on a painter’s palette have been run together.

My son and I stare at it for some time, until we risk being late for class. The effect, I have to again admit, is most startlingly beautiful. Then we drive to school, and there is more conversation than on previous mornings.

Of course, even with my sentimental view of the world, I cannot claim that simply looking at a stunning full moon and a picturesque red sky have banished the January low mood. Even I’m not that corny. Life is much more complicated.

But the actions have helped to remind me of a valuable lesson. When I’m feeling slightly down, my default position is to disappear into myself, to cocoon my senses against much of what is going on around. It is as if I’m covered by a fine film of dust. I don’t hear or notice things that I should. I often don’t see the full spectrum.

Sometimes, it takes an effort to pull myself out of this rut. I have to force myself into the effort of observing, to take the time to ensure that I do what should come naturally.

The impact can be restorative. Just by concentrating on what is around me, it squeezes out some of the depressive thoughts. No two things can occupy the same place. The dust which had settled on me is dispersed and I have more energy, more appetite, more ability to order the day, not to feel overwhelmed by it all.

Looking at the sky with my son is just a little thing. But it is enough to remind me that there are lots of colours out there other than blue.