P.s. It’s Friday

As the storm of my life begins to calm I’ve noticed that there seems to be something heavy about a Sunday. This last one was no exception and so I began to write, process; apply salve to my soul… Perhaps this feeling will fade along with my memories of “family fun day’s.” Maybe if I listen to Beyoncé or Kesha a little more I’ll instinctually be able to recall that “nothing real can be threatened,” and that “the best is yet to come…” Perhaps, but in the meantime there’s something daunting about the beginning of a new week. Something seems serendipitous about the songs that play on the radio as I drive to work. There is something cathartic about finding my story embedded in each country song that finds my ears. There’s something emotionally stirring about the places I’ve been able to avoid; like my office at school. Mostly there’s something stifling about thinking that I’ve gotten so far, and knowing that I’m still wounded…

There is something about realizing that I haven’t cried in days, that makes the tears flow… There’s something about seeing “our” home being renovated for someone new… it’s painful. There’s something as nauseating as it is freeing about organizing, decorating, cleaning, and living in a new space; just my daughter, Julio, and I. There is something jarring about being unable to sleep through the night, again. There’s something soul piercing about waking up “with the sheets soaking wet and freight train running through the middle of my head…” The Boss sure knew what he was talking about…

There’s something as liberating as it’s nerve racking about being a single mother paying bills, budgeting, and using power tools. There’s something empowering about surviving a first date. There’s something therapeutic about being able to share my story without crying; for the first time… There’s something overwhelming about being the only one to deal with Molly’s meltdowns and vomit, but as equally sacred about being the only one to kiss her “boo boo’s,” or tuck her in at night (because she asks for those things now)…

There’s something restorative about being able to laugh from my belly and genuinely smile. There’s something healing about being present for others again; both professionally and as a friend. Day after day, week after week, I notice the resiliency embedded within each human heart I encounter, and I find it as equally striking as I do intriguing… Some of us are surviving while others are thriving, but each place seems to serve its purpose for the time being. The divine synchronicity of being exactly where we are supposed to be.

I look around at people that have gotten through worse or are being confronted with similar experiences/emotions. Seeing all of this reconfirms that I will be ok, of course. Most importantly though, it also reminds of why I do the work that I do. It’s as inspiring as it is awful that we humans can endure losses, betrayals, and heartaches compounded by other heartaches. It’s seemingly inevitable that we stumble, fall, and feel defeat, but get back up again! And it’s downright shocking that amidst all of this the most authentic part of us is willing to begin, live, and even love again…

As my week has winded down I’ve been thinking a lot about the storms that have been happening recently; hurricanes Harvey and Irma. I have been praying for all of those who are impacted. My intention is not to diminish the severity of them by drawing a parallel, but isn’t this just like life? It literally and/or figuratively hands us “storms.” Sometimes with and sometimes without warning. If we are lucky enough to survive we are often left with something substantial. If nothing more than a deeper recognition and stronger appreciation for how fragile and short our time here is.

We lose our homes, our safe harbors, our people, and our things. We are left with the haunting memories of what was. We are faced with the seemingly impossible task of starting all over again when we feel too old, tired, sad, and defeated to do so. It’s hard, but we are the “chosen” survivors, which is a blessing in itself. And suddenly it makes sense to me why in order to give birth we must first “go into labor.” For what is Labor but hard work? And what is birth but a new beginning? And what is life if it’s not a series of endings and beginnings through which we learn and dare to become who we have always been…

P.s. It’s Friday.

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