You’re right. I’ve been talking to myself only, and leaving the rest of the world out of it. Why? There are reasons. It’s both simple and complicated.
The truth is, I’ve been self-censoring. Unfortunately, that probably won’t stop any time soon. I feel that being quiet (even though it’s not easy for me) may be the best choice. This is because my point of view and deeply-held personal opinions regarding many world events and situations are “controversial” at best. And yet I am not interested in arguing or evangelizing. Maintaining my relationships is more important to me than diffusing my opinions. So here I am in the jungle quietly watching the circus that is the rest of the world. Lots of dancing elephants, tame tigers, and not-so-funny clowns from this perspective, let me tell you.
And then there are other things that I wish I could tell about or show pictures of, but I can’t. It isn’t time yet. Not that I’m keeping secrets–if you get off a bus in my town you’ll see for yourself–but new elements of my personal life have specifically requested to be absent from “social media” and such like. I think it’s safe to say, though, that there’s a lot more love and laughter in my days than there has been for many years. A lot more joy, a lot more work, a lot more disorder in the house. A lot more happiness. Attached to all of these good things are some painful processes–a thing none of us escapes in life–which deserve my respectful discretion. This, in actuality, translates into…silence. Pictures of food and cats.
The cup is full.
The hours are full.
There is a job to be held, and a new second job that involves cooking in the houses of people on vacation. It’s so much work and so much fun and my partner in the venture is my favorite person to be with. There is surfing and there are friends and there are short nights and long days and FINALLY there is a car! A truck, actually, so there are weekends or at least Sundays at beaches with surf boards and cold fizzy beverages and no phones.
I feel like a have an acute understanding of how delicate everything is:
Peace of mind
If you sat very still and a beautiful butterfly landed on your hand, what would you do? What would you say? If you’re smart, you would do absolutely nothing. You would say absolutely nothing. You would sit very still and be amazed by the beautiful butterfly on your hand.
That’s exactly what I’m doing at this time.
Love this, Diana. Beautiful. There is something both sad and hopeful here for me. Thanks for sharing.
Laurie, Laurie. I have thought of you on so very many days. There is so much of where you are that I understand and certainly some places that I probably don’t. I send you love every time I think of you.
It never goes away, and for me that’s a good thing. We don’t want to completely lose the ones who are gone in so many ways. But the shock of it goes away. Not the loss, but the part of it that takes your breath away every single morning and then 1,000 times during every day. It doesn’t go away, but the ugly parts fade. It’s easier to remember the good things/times, and images of the ugliness of dying of cancer fade to pale shades of gray. The pain doesn’t go away, but it’s like the volume turns down. Very slowly. At first it’s deafening and you can’t hear or think about or be anything else. It’s awful. But it’s also ok. And very slowly, the volume lowers a little. It’s always there, and I think we want it to be, but eventually after a very very long time, you can hear other things and do other things and be other things at the same time, while what you had and lost and still have are still a part of you.
At least that’s how the last four years have been for me.