I've caught myself weeping on several occasions today, yet the morning has scarcely begun. I am not sad - I don't think...
Little things, like helpless, new-born kittens discovered mewling in a box at the side of the road and seeing the photos of Grace's beautiful Mum on her blog, have moved me to tears. I worry over what happened to my brother's finger - I know nothing other than something happened. He's a pianist and a woodworker and his livelihood depends upon his hands being whole. Every paragraph in the thoughtful, witty novel that I am reading - one of a woman's courageous journey to her own Self - brings a moist pressure that wells from behind my eyes into the ubiquituous tissues-at-hand. This post, too, has me blubbering. It's Saturday morning and I am sipping my coffee while lazing back upon the pillows in my bed. I'm snug and warm beneath the touseled quilts. Outside a cold wind is gusting, chasing the clouds across a darkening sky, yet the air is crisp and clear, bringing every tree upon the distant mountainside into sharp focus. Shades of green, blue and brown are the colours of the day. During these moments, I will allow Myself to happen. Bobby is away this weekend and I have been temporarily relieved from, what I've considered of late as, the "rigid" responsibilities of parenthood. I feel so, because outside influences are now lying in wait, lurking and ready to pounce if I falter, stumble or fall "out of line". Self-deprecation, along with its sibling, self-pity, skulk in the wings, as well. My ceaseless attempts to keep those dark brethren at bay rob me of valuable energy. I wish I were Gandalf! I would shrivel those worthless creatures of my soul into nothingness with one fierce look and a wave of my hazelwood staff.
Nonetheless, today holds promise, as does every day at its dawn.
I cry - but I am smiling.
