Sometimes I marvel to think how much less crazier I am than I should be.
In many ways this summer has been a breath of fresh air, providing the kind of deep restorative healing I haven't felt in years - maybe ever. How does one write about healing? Grief I understand with its wrestling and longing, its ups and downs. But healing is so delicate, so fragile, you don't want to even hope the word for fear it might get skittish and retreat back into hiding.
Grief leaves no one completely unscathed, yet healing is so tenuous, so fragile, that I cannot possibly see it happening without grace. Like some hidden path along a mountain precipice, no power or wisdom of mine couldn't recreate these steps, they have simply appeared at the next turn. Perhaps that is faith, to trust the path leads somewhere even when you haven't seen a trail marker in a while.
This summer I've negotiated an insurance settlement, stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon, taught Quinn to ride a bike, started allergy shots, bought a car, and picked blueberries. I started cooking again, purged different rooms in my house, and finally, after eight years in this house, I put things on the walls. Tomorrow Quinn begins his first day of first grade. Next week, I begin working full time again for the first time in a few years.
And nothing at all seems to have changed except the mysterious lifting of some weight over which I seem to have no control. So I'm forging ahead, without any clear trail markers, trusting the map and enjoying the cool breeze this summer has brought in my life. I'm reading and collecting thoughts to store up in my heart that should spill over some day soon. but for now I'm just treasuring this wholeness.
just in case.
