1000 silent sobs reverberate within those 4 letters. One word carries with it the sound of home.
In the safe echo of my sister’s pet greeting, I unraveled.
As I reflect, I realize I have been unraveling for a while. I just didn’t bother stopping–or stopping long enough–to pay attention to it. But as I confessed to my sister–the remnant of home–that I was feeling depressed, a moon’s tide was released.
forever, I perceive, your life and mine.
From time to time, a heart-shaped leaf will turn
yellow and fall–in falling a leaf torn
out of your life again,
the story I must constantly revive.
from “Dead Letters” by Mary Jo Salter
Winds of a hectic schedule pulled me under. I am overwhelmed with the honor and responsibility of being a “light worker” at school. Trying to provide for both students and staff leaves me wonderfully depleted, but depleted nonetheless. Striving to be a force for positive adult culture is a constant shift of mindset.
The current of change tugged at me. I miss tacos. And easy food that someone else prepares and cleans up. This cleanse business has been so good, but it is a new expenditure of energy with which I am not familiar nor comfortable. It is exhausting to be so healthy!
The sand shifted beneath me. I am getting regular chiropractic and massage treatments to heal after the accident. My body just feels worn down and not up to par with healing itself while simultaneously living.
Foamy sea salt stung my eyes. Dave and I have been off, trying to figure out our re-choreographed dance as he settles into a new, demanding role at work. We have sore toes and heavy smiles from not getting the steps right.
And in the end, I come back to the notion once again of self-care. When was the last time I went to yoga? When was the last time I opened my Bible and read and prayed? When was the last time I paused long enough to be honest and raw with myself?
At the heart of the matter is that I think I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. Rather than being my own merciless taskmaster ever striving towards the illusive ideal of effective, I need to let go, to surrender, to breath, to error, to say no. In my activist’s frenzy, I have been violent to myself. And this is moon’s pull.