Just overheard from the room next door, where the girls are supposed to be going to sleep: "Sometimes, when I fart, I like the way it smells."
"Yeah, I guess that happens sometimes."
Of course, it's only 7:54 Washington time, but it's almost ten o'clock here in Texas. Way past time for them to fall asleep. I hear them rolling around, into each other's spaces, stifled giggles, Martin's promise that they are about to get into major trouble. I wonder how far they will push before the inevitable happens? Downstairs, Merry is watching football with her Papa.
We just came back from a visit to the hospital to see Martin's lovely Mom, who will hopefully end her stay there tomorrow and come back to this full house. We are so excited to see her.
It's humid and warm--in the 60's today, and brilliant for just a sweater or Martin's hopeful shirt sleeves and shorts. It takes me a day or two to adjust to the humidity. I step out of the airport and hey, presto, the air is thick enough to swirl into a tea cup. I also smiled yesterday; when I step into the Seattle airport, I smell coffee. When I stepped into the Houston airport, I smelled fried food. I guess it would be equally appropriate to smell barbeque. . .possibly I will gain several pounds while I am here, which would not be tragic, since I lost quite a few pounds in the past few weeks.
Now the girls are complaining about horrible pains in their fingers, which suddenly surfaced now, at bedtime. Amazing how everything hurts and your throat is dry and your heart is heavy with unanswered questions--right before bedtime.
So many of you have been so kind and compassionate in your responses to our dear friend's sudden death. Every day is feeling better. We met her parents one morning before we left and talked to them about their wonderful daughter. Though I think of her many times a day, the thoughts are sweeter. Like a salmon, I've been swimming upstream with my eyes open to the salt water, and just now the seas are ending and I'm getting to sweet water. It tastes better. It does not burn.
I am pushing myself into life again, or easing back in. I find the heaviness lifting and spontaneity and laughter returning. It's true that grief takes time, and work, and patience, and it is just a walk that you have to take. How did my mother put it? You look into the wave of sadness, and you just wade in to meet it. There's no other choice. But how fortunate are we who have the hands of others to hold as we wade through. Even when we feel we are all alone, we turn to our right or left and there is someone else there, travelling beside us. I guess that's the magic of being human. Humans experience very similar things, and it is in our similarities that we find great comfort.
And it's amazing how many people respond with similar stories when you say, "I love someone with depression," or "I am mourning someone who struggled. . ." It makes your heart wider with compassion for others and for their suffering, and you realize that you are not alone.
What was it CS Lewis said? We read to know we are not alone.
We journey with others, and share, and become vulnerable, and we realize we are not alone.
Christmas seems like a distinct possibility.
"Yeah, I guess that happens sometimes."
Of course, it's only 7:54 Washington time, but it's almost ten o'clock here in Texas. Way past time for them to fall asleep. I hear them rolling around, into each other's spaces, stifled giggles, Martin's promise that they are about to get into major trouble. I wonder how far they will push before the inevitable happens? Downstairs, Merry is watching football with her Papa.
We just came back from a visit to the hospital to see Martin's lovely Mom, who will hopefully end her stay there tomorrow and come back to this full house. We are so excited to see her.
It's humid and warm--in the 60's today, and brilliant for just a sweater or Martin's hopeful shirt sleeves and shorts. It takes me a day or two to adjust to the humidity. I step out of the airport and hey, presto, the air is thick enough to swirl into a tea cup. I also smiled yesterday; when I step into the Seattle airport, I smell coffee. When I stepped into the Houston airport, I smelled fried food. I guess it would be equally appropriate to smell barbeque. . .possibly I will gain several pounds while I am here, which would not be tragic, since I lost quite a few pounds in the past few weeks.
Now the girls are complaining about horrible pains in their fingers, which suddenly surfaced now, at bedtime. Amazing how everything hurts and your throat is dry and your heart is heavy with unanswered questions--right before bedtime.
So many of you have been so kind and compassionate in your responses to our dear friend's sudden death. Every day is feeling better. We met her parents one morning before we left and talked to them about their wonderful daughter. Though I think of her many times a day, the thoughts are sweeter. Like a salmon, I've been swimming upstream with my eyes open to the salt water, and just now the seas are ending and I'm getting to sweet water. It tastes better. It does not burn.
I am pushing myself into life again, or easing back in. I find the heaviness lifting and spontaneity and laughter returning. It's true that grief takes time, and work, and patience, and it is just a walk that you have to take. How did my mother put it? You look into the wave of sadness, and you just wade in to meet it. There's no other choice. But how fortunate are we who have the hands of others to hold as we wade through. Even when we feel we are all alone, we turn to our right or left and there is someone else there, travelling beside us. I guess that's the magic of being human. Humans experience very similar things, and it is in our similarities that we find great comfort.
And it's amazing how many people respond with similar stories when you say, "I love someone with depression," or "I am mourning someone who struggled. . ." It makes your heart wider with compassion for others and for their suffering, and you realize that you are not alone.
What was it CS Lewis said? We read to know we are not alone.
We journey with others, and share, and become vulnerable, and we realize we are not alone.
Christmas seems like a distinct possibility.
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