Dragging days speed by sometimes in such a whirlwind that can only be described in twisted fragments.
Anger, fury, anxiety, aprehension, fear, hope, disbelief, shock, amazement, recovery, healing. What did I get myself into?
My God will avenge me, in His time, when I’ve learned all He has to teach me. God . . . Ever watchful, ever protective, never sheltering. Karma will kick you down, and justice beats you when you’re on the ground. There is no joy, but there is a sense of completion and victory . . . Finally. Five years is a really long time.
New beginnings for everyone – moves, weddings, jobs, kids. Promotions, raises. Amazed how much people trust me. Feeling so incompetent, knowing I’m not. Not what I thought, but not unlike what I expected. Finally meeting my goals, missing my kids so much. Need to take a day to reorganize my office.
Things loved and needed lay sadly to one side: Harry, blogging, yoga, laundry. Things loved and needed remain forcibly close: cats, popcorn, pictures, laughter. We huddle together, a team, a family of friends bound by a common goal: to thrive . . . Professionally, spiritually, emotionally.
No seas promedia.
Don’t be average.
I’m so proud of my people.
Cousins pushing through deployment in The Theater.
Brothers who have five months clean.
Mothers becoming therapists.
Fathers speaking truth to people I love.
Friends facing fears and insecureties.
Foster kids, my greatest heroes.
Salamander, Salsalito, Salidor.
I didn’t realize how much I missed that until the fog lifted and things got back to normal. Turns out there still are things to talk about.
Challenge. Tough choices. To stay, to go, to fight, to let go, to hope, to surrender. To do the first or the fifth thing on the “Single Most Important Thing To Do” list. “I wouldn’t have given you this job if I didn’t think you could do it.” Simple sentences mean the world to us sensitive clinical people.
Los muertos no hacen decisiones.
Dead people don’t get to pick. Anything.
So much to do. No time to write. Barely enough time to think in a straight line. Learning to force the time to eat lunch with another human, to laugh, to check Facebook and play Words with Friends, to Draw Something. Take a picture. Call it a day.
Laughing at the little things, and creating little things to laugh at. Impressions, teasing, calender pages. The written and spoken words are good for so much more than communicating.
Stacked newspapers, uncut coupons, unwashed dishes, unswept floors, groceries still in the bag on the table, laundry on the bedroom floor. Poetry is, I think, best written on paper. I think this could be called slam poetry, although I’m not sure why it’s called that. And I’m writing it on my phone. But I digress.
And yet, today, in the midst of the whirlwind, I jumped in a bounce house with a couple of my dearest grown-up friends. No kids around to use as an excuse. We just did it. Raced across the playground, climbed in, and jumped like little kids. A five-minute diversion that was no big deal but hit me squarely in my desperation for . . . something. I will cherish that memory always.
It is an odd thing to feel both supremely overwhelmed yet completely content.
In the midst of it all . . . HE IS.