{tuesday evening}
/howard amon park 7:23pm
such a lovely little rhythm to retreat to fresh air and wide open spaces every evening.
everything is soft. the air. the light. our hearts.
Life is for living
/
My alarm goes off at 5:20am. I push the button to turn it off instead of snooze. I feel awake, rested.
I discover a good morning text from my dad in which he calls me his sweetie. Even now, even at age 35.
I look in the mirror and notice that my hair is re-growing in thickness and strength. I’m happy that no matter the size of my hips, my collar bone is still evident and elegant.
My coffee begins brewing with the push of a button. Simple.
The strawberries on my spoon provide such a sweet contrast to the pucker of my plain yogurt. It is a lovely marriage.
Today will be an 80 degree April day! I dress my son in his only pair of shorts. I admire the quality with which they were made and feel thankful that even though they are two years old, they still fit. The thought of the sun coloring his little legs for the first time this season makes me feel warm.
In her sleepy saunter towards me, my daughter’s arms find my waist. She makes no judgement or remark about its fullness or softness. She mumbles, “morning mommy” and I’m grateful for the generous ways that children extend grace.
I fill my car with gas using the tightly rolled bundle of cash that my sweet grandparents handed me when I left their house last weekend. There is something satisfying about having just enough when you weren't sure you would.
Myra, the tiniest and sweetest woman meets my son and I at the door of his school. Her consistently kind face comforts both me and Ian in ways that she’ll never know. I want to hug her for being exceptionally generous with her smile and I wonder how so much goodness can fit into a lady so small?
The morning air blows the hair off my neck through the open window of my car as I drive. NPR comes in perfectly and I listen attentively to an unknown voice on the radio. It is like having an intelligent conversation with stranger. I like this.
Lemons fresh from the tree float in the water in my water bottle at my desk. They make it taste as if I am drinking giant gulps of spring. Clean water is so good.
Life is for living-- not mere survival. Even in the hard times.
I remind myself to live.
(I found this trillium flower in the woods last weekend. They are my favorite spring flower.)
On a rock in the forest
/I sat on the rock and looked around me. I didn't expect it to hit me in that moment but it did. I could see the undefiled purity in every square inch around me. Everything just was. The rocks were covered in lush velvety green moss. The mist rising from the waterfall sparkled like glitter in the sun. A tiny Benwick's Wren serenaded from the middle branches of a nearby alder tree. And the water... The water was the clearest, cleanest, most beautiful color of glass with the faintest tinge of green. Everything was simple and beautiful and whole and organic and lovely in it's own way. Nothing needed to be added. Nothing needed to be taken away. It just was. I asked myself how it was that human life could be so different from the scene on display in every direction I looked. How could it be so difficult, so jagged and unforgiving? Why was so much effort required? I began to cry as I let it soak in, the immensity of what I had recently been through. I hadn't yet allowed myself to step away from it that far- to stand back and look at the entire picture of it head on. I had only been surviving moment to moment, but now... now I strung all the moments together and took in the entire timeline. Sometimes when things are immeasurably right {like sitting in the sun on an emerald rock deep in the forest} you realize how immeasurably wrong they've been. The contrast was overwhelming.
I once heard a quote, by Johnny Depp of all people, that said "People cry not because they are sad, but because they've been strong for too long". I did cry. But that wasn't the only reason I cried. In this incompressible convergence of emotion I cried out of grief and weariness, AND I cried out of joy and strength. I have come so far from a place that I'll never go back to. There is both joy and pain in that. It's like leaving the only home that you've ever known, and coming home to the place where you know you belong. I don't know how else to describe it.
The full unveiling of what was lasted only a few seconds. It was so big that I could only look at it head-on for brief moment, but in that brief moment I quickly gathered whatever bits of love that were left, and whatever slices of grace that remained, and I carried them off into the future with me. I hopped off the rock with the intention of healing.
And that's how I will move on.
