A six month canvas.
I am not the painter. This is not my canvas.
A steady 30 years of my mom's chronic illnesses and pain, hospital stays, and emergency room visits drench the background. Subtle and unimposing as any 30 year event becomes.
Bold, shocking strokes are made in too little time to be absorbed, understood...
my son "targeted" and hurt at school,
my daughter hospitalized for ten days after a call in the night that I never wanted to get, but hoped would come to me if ever needed... a nightmarish night that I would trade for 30 more years of suffering with my mother,
my father's sudden death with little reconciliation,
my income gone...
Anchors lost and I drifted...
Visible... who chose to show up, reach out and believe in us. Felt... who didn't. Disorientation, deep sadness, and deeper exhaustion - a black coat.
Today, still, a lingering ache in my belly and chest arises, sticks. I sit with this. I try not to react. I observe. I study the canvas.
Because in this moment I am grateful. I am grateful that just this moment is easier, and there is felt relief in others' words, the tears, the breath...
In this moment I remember that I love the stars at night; cherish my children laughing, hugging and shining; enjoy a run before the birds wake; make time for a silent sit with a cup of tea before the sun rises. This moment I breathe...
I am not the painter. This is not my canvas.
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