“I’m not sure I know what I want to do” I said swatting at the mosquito nibbling on my ankles.
“And no matter what we choose, it’s all moving quickly.” said my friend sitting across from me, the orange dusk moving in on us.
She touched her elbows to her knees and rested her chin in her hands. We made eye contact and sighed.
When one goes to grief group, one is reminded of the slippery little secret we don’t like to talk about.
All of this will someday come to a close.
Each new day feels a vulnerable, brilliant breath as the sun rises to once again turn the darkness into light.
The time we think we have is not promised and not guaranteed.
This realization should move me into action and valiantly push me into new places.
No more settling.
I could be using this loss to wiggle my way into new rooms, and have bold conversations, invest in experiences to expand and take up space.
But I am still myself – the one slow to dip into cold pools. I observe situations for stillness before I act – like a double-dutch jumper waiting for the perfect in.
I watch the plastic ropes thwacking the cement each time as wrists turn them in arching rounds. There is a space where I can insert myself gracefully without the sting of plastic rectangles jangling on their strings stinging my skin. I watch. I wait. I trust the ropes will come around again, leaving me space to jump.
Tonight, I’m not sure what comes next. Not sure where to compromise, where to push, where to pull. Where do I risk and where do I play it safe? Where to put my trust in myself and in others.
Where do we lay our fragile beating hearts?
I’m not sure.
And yet, last night as I was trying to sleep my husband sat next to me strumming his guitar. His chords and his presence made me feel safe. I closed my eyes and whispered thanks.
I’m sure I want more of his music and his warmth and his work-on-the-car jeans leaving marks on our bedspread.
I woke and watched the sun seep into our bedroom window as my dog stretched between us, her scratching legs kick-starting her jangling collar to act as my wake-up call.
I’m sure I want more of those still mornings, seeping sun mingling with morning breath and puppy kisses.
Still in my pajamas, I brewed some coffee, poured thick white cream, and picked up a small book. Pressing the title to my chest, I juggled a full plaid mug with prose, moving myself and a story to the worn reading chair in the corner of our living room.
I’m sure I want to fill my life with the creative words of others.
I’m sure I want to find a way to share my creative words with those who need them.
I’m sure I want to publish.
I’m sure I want a cover with my name on it.
I’m sure I’m a reader.
I’m sure I’m going to write.
I’m sure of the simple, of the comfort found in conversations and knowing glances. I’m sure I’ll live my life seeing people and taking time to list the beautiful things filling my heart.
Perhaps that will be enough.