I've decided that a host of trials in this life cut a path at a slow burn punctuated by gasps for air.
I'm in the middle of something that needs no specific voice here. Writing in nuanced abstraction isn't really my bag, but I need to write today and it will have to do.
Each day I'm learning more and more about the slides, climbs, breaks, and plateaus of life-cracking change. I have long been averse to change. I would cry at each school year's beginning and each end; each move into and out of the dorm; each departing friend; each returning student. I find myself now in the midst of change for which I am largely responsible. There is pain and relief, worry and hope. There is no moment in this slide, climb, break or plateau that isn't amped up. I'm on high alert 24/7 and I'm tired.
If you've journeyed through crisis, you will surely agree there are moments that seem normal and others that are surreal and still others that are joyful and then excruciating. Regardless, there is no end to the ringing in head and heart caused by your own screaming...but your mouth is closed and you aren't making any noise.
So I find myself motioning through the minutiae of each day at the aforementioned slow burn, until suddenly something will suck the breath out of me. It may be a moment of relief, it may be a storm of worry. In those moments--good or bad--I am jerked out of this haze I'm living in and I claw for air. All the while, though, I am doing everything I can to keep the struggle secret. I have people who need my strength even more than I do. They shall have it.
There is much to be said for oxygen. The love of my miraculous children, a solid verse from the Good Book, a friendship dearly held: these are the oxygen tanks on this road. There is a corner to be rounded not far away. I couldn't go this distance without them.
I know that around the bend, over the hill, there is a fat moon waiting for me...and deep breaths in vast supply. I'm counting on it.
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