Oh hey there.
It’s been a while hasn’t it? One can have all the best intentions and make all the plans but still go missing for awhile. It’s okay.
I have no good excuses except that, this is hard.
What do I mean by “this”? Well, life, being inside my wee little head, writing, creating, mothering, running a business, having a career. You know, I know you know.
I am unlikely to get any better at it, at least accordingly to my own tally, but I have made a pledge towards improved effort in one spot. I’ve told a few people about this, I’ve alluded to it here on these pages too. But, I’m weak when it comes to this. I’m scared mostly. So, I’m going to ask for your help. Likely repeatedly.
I’ve been so restless. I’ve been searching everywhere: meditating, reading, listening, walking, running, stretching, sitting, reaching out, drawing in. But I have just been unable to satisfy what is stirring in me. It’s like a caged animal pacing back and forth. Sometimes it tries to claw itself up my throat when I ignore it. Sometimes it is curled in my belly purring when I get close to setting it free. Mostly it paces. Back and forth, back and forth. And I think it is getting impatient.
Today I finally took the time to sit down at my keyboard and type again. Time passed so beautifully. My desk is a haven. My girls and their friend came in at one point while I was here and their friend remarked: “You have a great life. Well maybe not so much the doctoring, but this is really great.” From the mouths of babes, eh? Of course the doctoring is great, it really is, in fact my entire life is so extraordinary that it is ridiculous to consider. But, as I tell my husband, it is because of this extraordinary that I have the desire and ability to push further. My restlessness is not dissatisfaction at all. It’s a knowing that I have more to give and it would be inconsiderate to all those who have cradled me to this point to not give it a go.
So, I’m going to vow here to spend time every week to write my book. Maybe if I can gather more courage, I can commit to it daily. Because it is only in my book where I can weave and spin and dazzle and delight myself the way that I long to be. My beast needs a good run, it’s time to let her stretch her legs, flex her muscles, and lean into the wind.
Here is how she starts. I have no idea how or when she will end but I need to find out.
xo J
She sits on the edge of the bed. The box in her hands, which rest on her lap. The bed is soft and simple. The pattern of the yellow and white duvet is worn perfectly to a blend of nostalgia and comfort. The two simple pillows rest at the head of the bed. You could almost see the outline of her still there, chest rising and falling, serenity spread across her face. As the sun rises, perfect beams of soft light start to enter the room from the windows at its end and slowly crawl up the bed to where Rose sits.
She’s exhausted. Her body feels weak, near transparent. Her eyes heavy from recent tears, her throat contracted knowing more may come, her heart heavy in her chest as if no longer upright at attention and beating, but soft and resting after too much work. Although she knew that night was coming it didn’t make it any easier. Death is never easy on those who watch and not partake it would seem.
The woman who left them last night shaped them all so much Rose thinks, although she couldn’t explain how or why.
When Grace entered their house they were the typical family; working away, going to school, wanting for little, questioning less. But over the year she was with them so much changed. It all changed.
Was it a coincidence? Rose wondered. Was it just a trick of the mind to attach a start date and an end date to what seemed like a chapter in their lives? Would it all have happened anyway?
She supposes that that is what a skeptic would think. That’s what she would have thought. But does that seem right? Instead, could they have been led, by some force, to where they ended up. A force full of love and knowing and universality. Reflecting on this the tears well up again and a deep longing rises like another wave in her body that causes her to buckle forward in ache and sadness.
“Who will guide us now? Why didn’t I pay better attention? Who will carry my girls like I’ve felt carried?” She whispers aloud, to no one.
As her heads bows forward under the weight of grief again, her tears land with a drop, drop, on the music box in her hands. She smiles thinking of the little ballerina, most likely, inside who will undoubtedly start to turn as she opens the box to reveal a song and possessions. Whoever thought to put a ballerina in a box? She thinks to herself. The thought brings a small smile. And with that, she wipes her tears on her sleeve, unlatches the box, and as she does a beautiful summer breeze blows in the open window at the end of the room. The breeze lifts the lace curtains of the window almost to the ceiling and works it way through the room to where Rose sits. As it reaches her and her gift, the contents of the box fly into the space of the room like doves finally being set free.
At first Rose can’t tell what they are, but as they start to land from their flight on the bed and floor around her, Rose sees. And, with mouth agape understands instantly. It was her. She was leading them and, Rose now realizes in crystalline clear certainty, left when she knew her work was done.