A Wrinkle in Time

Yesterday was 7 months. How can that possibly be? Where have these 7 months gone? What have I been doing? Sleepwalking?

So, 7 months have passed? What does that mean? To some, it may mean that I should be "moving on", "feeling better", "talking about something else", "not so sad anymore". To me it seems like yesterday. I have replayed that terrible tragedy over and over and over. Everyday for 216 days. With this on replay, how can I "move forward"?

What can I say that I have done with this time? I have managed. Somehow. I wake up and get out of bed, I brush my teeth, I eat what I can and I go to work.

Its not how it used to be. I'm not who I used to be. Will I ever be? In some way I hope not. This is sad. But this is real. Avery lived with us for 10 beautiful months and now he is dead.

On Your Knees

Photo taken by me in Tucson, AZ.

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the dessert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

"Wild Geese"

by Mary Oliver

Remember

"If you know someone who has lost a child and you're afraid to mention their name because you think you'll make them sad by reminding them their child has died... they didn't forget that their child died. You're not reminding them. What you're reminding them is that YOU remembered their child lived and that is a GREAT, GREAT gift."

~Elizabeth Edwards

Feeling Prickly

Photo taken by me in Tucson, AZ

Dont Ask

Today I'm a snarl, a growl,

a tight-lipped frown. I'm

an ice-floe forcing new curves

in cold, winter ground.

I am sulk and pout and grr. Rrr.

I am small and I want to stay here.

To heck with vastness. To heck

with content. I am too clenched 

to vent. Rather to stew, to swim

in my bile. Rather to walk

ten thousand miles in my bare feet

in deep snow and on shoes of sharp tacks.

There's a sick and sweet martyred

ring to that. There may be some

whisper inside somewhere

that says, "Open up, look around,"

but I slam the door on that voice

and turn up the sound of the static

and fuss. I feel like wallowing

in the muck. Deeper. And darker.

More dank. More foul. I may soon

laugh at this fetid mood,

but not now.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

shared from wordwoman.com