Trying to remember the details of the last four weeks is like grasping at straws…blindfolded.
It has been 4 weeks of illness, travel, and drama. 4 weeks of failure. 4 weeks of exhaustion. 4 weeks of tears on all sides. 4 weeks of living shallow breath to shallow breath. 4 weeks of multiple cups of coffee by 9am. 4 weeks of tracing the perfect circle of the top of my coffee cup with my eyes while the chaos faded into the background for just that moment. 4 weeks of hearing a stranger’s voice, full of weariness and impatience, in my home, and now only realizing it was my own. 4 weeks of yelling-induced silence. 4 weeks of triage. 4 weeks of busy. 4 weeks of moving too fast. 4 weeks of losing ground. 4 weeks of grasping at anything to anchor me: a conversation with a friend, escaping the house, sewing a seam here and there, sitting on the porch whenever the sun came out, trying to be grateful that illness wasn’t severe and everyone is healthy again. 4 weeks of something. 4 weeks of stretching thin and stretching out. 4 weeks of curling into and around everyone to support and to comfort.
4 weeks of suppressing all the things I really wanted to say, to write, to shout so I could tend, mend, and bend.
Tending, mending, and bending. I’m ready to release my tendril of support as they can all reach for the sun on their own now.
4 weeks later.
Finally writing again…using writealm.
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