It's Saturday again.
I think I lost most of Monday and Thursday.
Well, not lost. Sleep does not count for loss. Neither does laundry.
I guess I just made it back to this day without realizing time was moving forward quicker than I was.
My counselor recently asked me to set an alarm to help me re-center every day, give me a chance to live in the present and check in on my heart and mind. So when the music starts up from my purse or the table or when I am making a call, I stop what I am doing and take a few minutes to walk through my routine:
- Check my heart rate
- Take some deep breaths
- Do something with my hands (write, sculpt, color)
- Give a word to how I am feeling in that moment
These past few days I have had the same feeling. It feels like this:
As I grieve Kevin.
And worry about my health.
And cancel plans to be with people I love.
And try to find the energy to get out of bed and do what I am expected to do I feel like this.
Grey and cloudy.
On our weekly night hikes at Thousand Pines and Calvin Crest, we engaged our human ability of night vision. We would walk into the forest without any source of light (except the occasional bright moon) and our eyes would adjust so we could see. The cones in our eyes, the way we detect color, would lose their ability to respond to light while the rods would work overtime, helping us make out shapes and shadows. We could discern what was around us--in a sense we could see--but it was a world of grey.
As we approached camp and its lights (or, in some instances, when a kid fell down and we had to pull out a cell phone or flashlight to make sure they were ok) the ability to detect color came back. The world went back to normal.
Right now, in a time of sadness and frustration and fear, my world has gone to grey.
However, as I prepare for a life of night vision, a season of sitting alone on an isolated cloudy beach, there are glimpses of light.
From a husband who wakes up next to me and reminds me I am not in this alone.
From a family who shows up and tells me it is ok to have days where it is a struggle to function.
From a staff who gives me grace and surrounds me with prayer.
From friends who send flowers and texts to bring (literal) color to my day.
So I know that this season of grey will end.
Because Kevin would hate a world without color.
And Jesus would, too.
"There's a darkness upon me that's flooded in light
And I'm frightened by those who don't see it."
- The Avett Brothers
