Breathing is hard today. For several days I have been plagued with a horrible cold and have not felt my usual self. I wish I could breathe deeply, but I cannot. Longing for breath consumes my days. I went out for air and sunshine and a milkshake yesterday. The milkshake machine was broken. I drove to the beach but could not make myself pull over and park. I stopped for a Diet Coke and bought Cracker Jacks when I really wanted Crunch n Munch. Desires that seem so simple and inconsequential become heaps of angst. “The ground is always littered with our longings.”
I am grieving and I don’t even realize it. My friend Dawn has died. She is younger than I. My son feels abandoned and I cannot rescue him. My health feels crummy. My house needs cleaning. My daughter is 14. My world feels numb and since writing my Lenten prayer, I’m not sure I have given myself fully to anyone. “The ground is always littered with our longings.”
Longing for connection. Longing for wholeness. Searching too hard. Can I just be? Just rest and be me? What am I doing? Searching. Looking. Asking. Seeking. Flat dull spaces block my path. And then I hear my own words, “Let us not move too quickly to the Good News and thus dismiss our pain and sorrow.” Can I sit in the sorrow for a while? Will I allow myself to be present for myself? For my losses?
Death and dying. New birth. New life. Breath seems so important. My mind is muddled. The rhythm of life speaks to me. The pendulum. The ground littered with our longings. The question is how to remain faithful to all the necessary deaths while leaving room for resurrection. The only way to get through grief is to grieve. The only way to take in fresh air is to breathe. Breathing is hard today.
"I write to discover what I know." Flannery O'Connor (& me)
photo by bill hughlett