Life to me is more than feeling the tingly sensations of happiness in my body, though. It has come to mean forcing myself to be still enough to hear the four-part harmony of the waterfall.
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What is home? Truly, I ask this question. [...]
I feel rather stumped by the question these days, though. I find myself wanting to define "home" as the place that feels like home, and yet, I really can't say where that is at the moment.
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As I drove past the snow-dusted meadow, through the creek a second time, and pulled up next to the RV, I took it all in. The meadow was still covered with a few inches of snow and the dirt road passing beneath us was more frozen than muddy.
When I got out to greet Dave, I was no longer the little girl riding the too-big-hand-me-down bike. I was the adventure-woman driving her adventure-mobile.
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I know last week I wrote, "Be still, tender soul. You are not alone. Your needs have always been met, and this time will be no exception." My head knows this is true. Yet, in the less analytical organs of my body, chaotic distrust reigns. It seems as though no matter how many times my needs are met, I can never fully trust all will be well this time - not on the cellular level, that is. Even if my mouth speaks brave words, the pinches of tension gripping the top of my shoulders and the shallow breaths emanating from my lungs tell a different story.
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I always knew I couldn't keep Charlee forever. My dad had even said something about that being my first car - that he didn't see me keeping it longer than five years. I knew the day would come when the repairs cost too much, or when the car no longer fit my lifestyle. [...]
I just never expected I would be driving that dear little car one moment and an hour later watch it ride off on a tow truck, never to be driven again.
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"Learn to love pacing yourself, Jessie," he wrote.
My friend was responding to the news about my car accident and my frustration with incremental improvements on this journey of healing. We've talked about this before. One step at a time is how he thru-hiked the 2,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail, and it's how I've made every bit of progress in the last several years.
That doesn't mean I like it, though.
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Sometimes the miracle is having the voice to scream, "Jesus!" at an octave you've never reached as you realize an SUV is about to plow into your door at 40 mph, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.
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Let's talk about holiday grief.
I'm not referring to the bozo who cut you off in the parking lot at the overcrowded mall and drew a "good grief" from your best friend in the passenger seat. I'm not talking about Maria Carey's "miss you most" grief, because grief is ridiculously hard to quantify. No, I'm talking about old grief: the grief of losses past. This kind of grief lies dormant in your marrow while the leaves on trees change from green to yellow and orange and burning-bush-red.
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"Sometimes it's okay if the only thing you did today was breathe." - Yumi Sakugawa
Lately, amidst the ups and downs of life and the unique stresses of the holiday season thrust upon those of us with gaping holes in our families, I have struggled to breathe.
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Welcome to the start of a new journey, a fresh blog, and the launch of a new career: “author.” (My, that’s terrifying to actually write…) Thank you for joining me on this adventure.
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