Everything about me feels wilted. My soul, my body, and my old, stretched-out jeans all sag as I slouch down down the path next to Chris. I'm forcing my legs to march forward, keeping myself from collapse. We're trekking down a simple trail, spurred on by the lure of warm pizza in the car. We've taken a date night while the teenagers roam, and although the occasion would normally inspire an upbeat mood, deadbeat feels much more like the truth.
I shuffle on in silence, warring with the demons that haunt me. Mental fatigue. Messy house. Moody teens. My life feels like it's careening out of control, so close to the chasm of chaos that I feel its icy updraft whenever I slow down. Abandonment. Family fracture. Distress. The combination of recent travel to a faraway place and a return to this familiar-patterned life leaves me drawn.
I brush at a few pesky tears, inwardly thanking Chris for his kindness. His silence has given me space to unwind. I'm mourning so many things, after all: The closure of my child-rearing years. The rift between mothers and teens. And this deep, aching sadness that remains. Can a person grieve her own grief? I've wrestled with this sorrow for what feels like my whole life.
I will my body to keep moving. I engage the thankful thoughts that so often provide a reprieve. My attention alternates between the dust-puffs at my feet and the endlessly-hued green of the hills near and far. I waver between an inertia so strong I long to curl into a ball and the knowledge that each step makes me stronger, more whole. "I can" and "I can't" wage combat in my mind, and I'm not sure which one will win.
And then.
And then we round a corner, and my eyes open wide. Bolting from the ground like confetti thrown upward, a mayhem of purple flowers rises high. All shades, all heights, as astonishing as a rainbow in clear sky, they demand that we stop and admire. An unbidden smile fills my face, making me feel almost shy. But after a pause, this subsides. Awe and anguish can coexist, after all. So can grief and gratitude, anger and joy, darkness and light. I remember the Montana prairie from where I just came. While I visited, sun warmed the winter-brown hills and called forth the first blooms of spring. Today, cold has stolen the color from those slopes and swathed them in snowdrifts instead. It seems impossible, but the reality remains. Winter and spring coexist there, just as they do in my heart.
I marvel at the memory of those flowers. I anticipate the taste of that pizza. And I save sacred space for my sorrow, my stress, my unmet desires. Life isn't pleasure or pain, love or loss, fear or fortune. It's both. It's everything. It's and.
A few minutes later, I immerse myself in the first, tangy-sweet pizza bite. It's comforting and spicy, a promise of good things to come. I savor. I sigh. I know that I'll be just fine.
