Kryptonite



- Tuesday May 2, 2017 –

I guess in the storybook of my life, my superheroes fight cancer.

First, it came for my mom. And even though she was strong and fought hard, it took her.
It took my son’s namesake – the man who taught me about grace.
And now, it’s staring down the face of my dad with aggressive intimidation.

Cancer is a real hero’s kryptonite.
And grief is mine.

I’m amazed today (I might mean “I’m angry today”) at how the world keeps moving at its unbroken pace, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m internally screaming at it to stop, or at very least slow down so I can have a minute to process.

On the other hand, I guess I need that pace to keep me moving so I’m not tempted to plop down my worn baggage and unpack in this state of anger and grief and every other emotion I loathe, but that I feel in a very real and raw way right now.
“Just a minute!” I plead.
But this is life.
And it feels unfortunately familiar.

I step out onto my back porch this morning, sit down and just listen.
I strain to hear sounds that calm me, like signing birds. I don’t have the strength to turn my face to the sun, so I curl into my knees and let the warmth soak into my back instead.
And I breathe.
Deeply inhaling the crisp morning air, willing it to extinguish the fire that’s roaring inside the entire whole of my body.
Just a minute.

Then I retreat back indoors to the comfort of my keyboard where I’ll let some of it out.
Before I sit down, I crack the window.
Maybe if I let the outside in, I’ll feel a little less consumed and claustrophobic.

The clicking of my fingers becomes a symphony with the hum of airplanes overhead, a few birds sing along in their morning serenade, and then, as if in an aria, the soft coo of a single dove.
Just. Wait.
While I listen.
Maybe that sounds like peace.



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