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Wednesday, July 13, 2011
A River of Stones: July 13
Some mornings it seems the tub is filled with an equal measure of clear water and tears. They trickle down my cheeks becoming one with the bath as I imagine a former joy that is now impossible. I see myself stepping out, drying off, dressing (that I can currently do) and taking a walk through the quiet neighborhood before anyone else is awake; wheelchair and assistance free.
More pebbles in the river of my mind:
The loss of independence seems unbearable at times. Asking my daughters to push me up and down the hills of our neighborhood in my wheelchair feels like begging. It is hot. They don’t want to get up early while it is cool. They are teenagers. My belly aches, my jaw tightens, as embarrassment seeps into the hole where pride struggles to stay planted. I weep into the water, knowing that I must ask for help to go outside in the oppressive summer heat if I want fresh air (not that it is any different in the cooler months, I still can’t manage the chair by myself on the hills).
Then I contemplate all those in the world whose suffering is far greater than mine will ever be. A flicker of shame is sparked briefly, until compassion pours into the craggy spaces tangled with conflicting thoughts and emotions, nourishing the roots of dignity grafted to pride, transforming self-pity to acceptance, opening to lovingkindness for all beings.
You think you are done grieving, until a new wave washes over you. So it is, so it is. I meet the sadness with a gentle hug, arms wrapped around legs, hands resting on opposite shoulders, forehead on knees, grateful I can still bend into this posture of humility. This flexibility that still remains is a gift, I know. I am grateful.
Linking to Emily at: