On a Wednesday morning a few months ago I sat at the table, my notebook in front of me, a stack of books on my left and big, hot tears running down my face. I was thinking about my granddaughter and how, due to an amazing advance in eye care, her rapidly worsening eye disease might be held at bay. Each night, she wears “eye retainers”. Once they’re in place, she’s unable to do anything else except close her eyes and go to sleep. When she went to bed on one of the first nights, she said to me, “I’ve lost one of the things I love most—being able to fall asleep reading.” She was mourning the loss of this beloved ritual, and the next morning the loss was still heavy on her heart.
Sometimes you feel like you’re free-falling and stuck in the chute simultaneously.
Time is altered—hours fly by and minutes last forever.
Pain and abandon dance together.
Words that never healed, scream out, coming in gasps between sobs.
What will become of me if I cannot repair the brokenness?
Anger and cries for help share sentences, as losses are mourned.
Then, helplessness and hopefulness mix together
and the mourning gives way to a new morning.
My hands are wrapped around my mug of tea. The 6:30 train can be heard in the distance. I listen over the sound of the now-running heating system. I mourn the loss of the warm weather and in the morning I’m most aware of it, knowing that I can’t walk outside and sit on the deck to think and pray and read and write. Mourning losses in the morning.
Without challenges—without trials and struggles—can we really learn what joy is? If it’s always been “easy”, can we be thankful for what we have? Without knowing unhappiness can we truly appreciate “happiness”? Having never been in pain it’s hard to be thankful for being pain-free. We settle in to what’s comfortable.
A bird barrels to the ground then, at the last moment,
glides gracefully back to the sky.
How often are we like that bird—
feeling as if we’re going to crash and then,
at the last moment, taking flight again?
When have I grown the most?
Was it in my youth when energy and enthusiasm coursed through my veins—excited to take on the world?
Was it as a young mother, laughing, singing, praying and watching over gifts that I learned, too soon, were only on loan?
Was it in the height of my career when I’d “made it” and believed the sky was the limit?
No…growth came from loss, from death—tangible and intangible—from experiences that were amazing and horrific, from living and evolving and becoming of age.
So, I’m aware, as another year comes to a close, how miraculous yet tenuous life is, how I stand on the precipice of joy and sorrow on the same day, how I can be fully human yet completely spirit-filled in the same moment. How, because of those juxtapositions, I am blessed.
©2016 peace full home™/intentional living