I've been noticeably avoiding any post-length writing, save for what I'm writing without an audience. This is a therapy process I've been missing in recent years. Or rather, it's a manner of thinking- the only way I think in my best form. It's accompanying (and was suggested by) new counseling sessions.
It's all raw and intimate and guts I'm not spilling here. Deep work, opening old grief and buried questions.
Along with internal mental surgery, my body's kept me in bed far too much this week. I see the neurosurgeon tomorrow. I'm concerned with new "dead" patches that come and go but are persistent. This is new. My pain's eased up since last weekend, so it's most likely normal.
So life has been too intense, and I've needed privacy and quiet. I've been with my wildling girl a lot, just watching her fly. She's reading so well, and her bright, colorful, sharp little mind is a treasure chest that keeps opening and unfolding. I've been enjoying the moments with her so purposefully. She changes and grows like a sped up film. It's a blur if I don't carefully attend it.
So this spring, I'm watching the changes and doing deep, careful work. I'm approaching Mom's birthday (the day before mine) with a surge of sharpness to the grief that's been mellowing. My heart stretches to aching reaching for what isn't there.
But the Earth greens and Molly laughs. Shane gets drunk on the smell of my neck. The lilac blossoms and Dharma is sleepy and comfortable and slow and content.
Home feels a dusty and wild garden needing tending, but it is a temple here with all of us straining from paychecks so meager and worries buzzing around. It's our garden, though. A center in the chaos.