Rains gently falling begins to pour, and mild contentment after upheaval settles in. The hardest beast to tame has retreated into her cave waiting to emerge with the least little provocation. On a good day, the head (with fangs) is always poking out ready to strike.
It is an unusual summer, not summer really, but a very long spring. Losses pile up as if the winter dregs never left. The usual burst of joy diminished without knowing why. Perhaps it is trying to interact with brothers who I always thought I could relate to because they were the only ones who never touched me evilly.
But in trying, rooms opened yawing with need never met, not for them, and definitely not for me. My guess is that they able to make a family with three of them, and their wives, because they know how to live on the crust of the bread without consuming the soft interior. I cannot do that anymore. I cannot be invisible, nor a doormat to use then wipe your feet on.
Part of life is always loss, living with both the joy of breath, and the sorrow of loss. My prayer to my son and dear wife who suffer the sorrow of losing their son before ever being born. To have to birth a baby already passed at 6 months is a grief to bear, but how to?
Through tears, I bend over the strawberry patch in the warm sun. It is hard to be sad while picking strawberries. The strain of bending causes sweat to drip into my eyes, each swipe of the wetness satisfying. Numbness thaws into grief. Stating to Samuel how much I hate weeding, I find myself down on the grass at the gardens edge digging dirt with a feeling of connection that had been missing. Working out grief in the earth is pastime known well, and it is good to get back to it.
But today is quiet with rainfall and reflection.
