Tuesday, June 6, 2017

#24, June 6, 2015, Single Thread

This is the next in the series of transcriptions from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life.
The yard is lush and green. I harvested spinach yesterday and planted more. The sun is already halfway across the eastern sky at 7:30 in the morning. And I’m still fighting my life, battling for something not given right now. It’s no use trying to chisel out some normalcy. I have to decide—have to dive into what I’m given.

There’s a sweetness I’m missing because I don’t want to give in to it. I’m looking for normalcy and don’t know what it is. It’s not anything I want. It’s not even what Dave wants.

All I know is that it’s Dave’s job to be sick and mine to care for him as well as I can. But even in that, we can carve out some joy together. I keep trying to get ready to be alone, keep rushing what will come after, but there’s no doing that.

I want to do what we can do now. I want to smile and laugh and love each other. We can still do that. There is summer left and on the days he can, we can take drives or breathe in some green somewhere. He would like that and so would I. And there is the pleasure of pleasing him.

One single thread of spider silk is hanging from the top of the arbor all the way to the arm of my chair. All I would have to do break it is to wave a careless arm and it would be gone. But it shines in the sun. I think I will leave it.

I need to stop running away from my life in the name of saving it. I need to demolish the compartments I have built and am encouraged to build for protection. I need to slide all the way in. Because God is good, there is something beautiful there. The moments of life escape so easily. Like this one.

image: Jack Woodville London

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