#39. . . .
There were so many things I wanted to write about. Things
about relationship and moving and people and pain and healing and death and
dying and love and joy and grace and peace and home and friends and self care
and honor and wisdom and strength.
So many topics I did not get to. So many things I did not
say.
Yet, as I sit here, attempting to write the next to last
post and fumbling through the title I had already decided on, I feel that I
really have nothing in me to say tonight. The previously assigned topic is lost
on a paper full of words that sound empty and trite.
I had an appointment earlier today and then I came home.
I had intended to do a lot of things but ended up not doing much of anything. I
talked with some friends, watched too much tv, watched my pups play, and made
some dinner.
I recently worked quite a bit, so I needed a day of rest.
But the day is drawing to a close and I feel tired. I do not feel rested. I
think the exhaustion of working nights is catching up to me, it so often does.
My parents sent me flowers a week or so ago. They are
beautiful. But they are also dying. Some have wilted and are downcast, others
are still strong and tall. I suppose life is like this vase, full of health and
death and beauty and wilt and strength and downcast.
Earlier I wrote about hope. Now that feels so foreign to
me. Which, in truth, is why I have sat with the concept so much this year. Trying
to make hope feel real, feel true, feel hopeful.
My dear young self, there are some days when you find
that you do not have much left. You will fill empty and tired and done. Listen
to yourself. Rest when you find that you are telling yourself to do so.
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