The road over to my mother's house was slippier than Ivor Callely. Cars skidded down the hill, ploughing manky furrows in the slush. Hailstones pinged off my earlobes.

"Scott of Antarctica, my arse," I grumbled as I cleared her driveway in a flurry of curses and sleet, occasionally shaking my fist at the sky. I must have looked like a prat because, out of nowhere, a snowball hit me on the back of my head.

My reaction surprised me. I didn't get annoyed and run after the little bugger who threw it. Instead, I had a snowball-shaped epiphany: I realised that there are two ways to look at snow. You can see it through adult eyes, as briefly beautiful but ultimately a nuisance. It cleans the streets, hiding dead leaves and dog turds, but also causes sprains and lost revenue. It kills old people.

Or you can see it through a child's eyes, as it turns your neighbourhood into a glowing, cushioned playground. You hold your breath as it begins to fall and pray that it will "stick". Then you pull out a tray, sleigh or fuel bag and run to the nearest incline to join the criss-crossing lines of whooping kids crashing into each other.

On Sunday, I walked over a crowded Killiney Hill and remembered skittering along the Burma Road on a metal bin lid. I tried to forget our bills and see things as a child again. The Obelisk was a snow-peaked wizard's hat. Dalkey Island was a whale, barnacled with snowdrifts. Then a reminder of the Tiger years glided past: a teenager on skis. I wanted to wedgie him.

Afterwards, I built a psychotic-looking snowman in the front garden to freak our cat out (it worked). It helped me ignore the radio for a few minutes. Back inside, 'Mary' was telling Liveline how she spends most of her day in bed as she can't afford to turn the heating on. I thought of poor, depressed Ireland shivering under a blanket of snow, unable to face the day. I also thought of Dermot Ahern's €128,300 pension and how he'll never be short of fuel.

Again, I remembered that there are two ways of looking at the snow: Mary's way and a child's way – the latter only seeing its positive side.

Later that evening, RTÉ reported a drop of 4,000 in the dole figures. There are two ways of looking at this too. Brian Lenihan sees it as positive. Those of us who know better see it as reflecting the number of 'invisible' unemployed. These are the people made redundant in 2009 who no longer qualify for job-seeker's benefit because their year is up, or for means-tested allowance because their spouse is earning.

Looking at the snow, I tried to find a second way of seeing the arrival of the IMF. I couldn't. It would be insulting to write about a positive side to the extra suffering we're about to endure.

I did come to one conclusion though: we must believe we can survive this crisis or we will go collectively insane. The relentless gloomy forecasts are driving the country into a dark depression. The deeper we go, the harder it will be to re-emerge. We may not be able to cure the cause of this melancholy – our financial circumstances – but we can start treating some of the symptoms.

The first step is to stop seeing Ireland as a nation and start seeing it as a community. An item on Wednesday's Pat Kenny Show reinforced this belief. Pat interviewed a member of 'Snowbusters' – volunteers who travel around Kilkenny helping weather-bound people. The response to their altruism was overwhelmingly positive. It also encouraged others to follow suit.

The Indo reported farmers were volunteering to grit roads if given access to salt. Across the country, neighbours helped each other out. Even in Dublin, drivers offered lifts to stranded commuters. Small gestures like these make life more bearable. They temporarily block out the crap-storm and raise morale.

Our lack of numbers is actually one of our greatest strengths. Ireland's a village and our size makes it easier to positively affect each other's lives. The smallest gesture of kindness can help. That may sound like self-help book tosh, but if you've suffered from depression you'll understand what I mean.

I'm speaking from past experience. The only way to temporarily escape it is to try and focus on positive things, however small. These small distractions could be the lighting of your town's tree. They could be the opening of a Christmas card or the kindness of neighbours. They could be all the free things you may have taken for granted, like watching kids playing in the snow.

The thought to cling to is this: the darkness is like the snow, it won't be here forever.

dkenny@tribune.ie