I've had better weeks. I've had better days. Of course, the converse is also true: I've had worse weeks, and certainly much worse days. Let's face it - life can get really crappy sometimes. I am grateful to have learned the gloriously annoying lesson of "this, too, shall pass," and I barely even grit my teeth when I say that.
There was a time that I felt as if I had to climb a ladder in order to get to crappy. There was a time I lived in the land of forever for ever bad thought or feeling or day I had. The good stuff was always fleeting; the bad stuff was eternal. I knew it. I'd gather all my crappy baggage and crawl into that crappy neighborhood that lives inside my head, and I'd set up camp near the busted out buildings and tumbleweeded vacant lots, ready for, well, forever.
I knew, more than anything else, that I would feel just as crappy and bad and sad and lonely and less-than tomorrow, and the next day, and the next week and month and - you get the picture. I was a tragic figure, ready for my close up.
So, it's been a crappy week in a year or so of crappy weeks. There've been some good times hidden in these days. Some of them brilliant and filled with light and wonder. There has been joy, and play and gifts unimaginable - not necessarily anything big and grand. Often quiet and unlooked for, like opening a forgotten box wedged into the back of your closet, only to find a press of dried cornflowers and the squidgey marks of a tiny, brightly colored handprint made just for you. Mostly though, there's been a lot of crap strung between those glory days.
And it's ok. I'll take all the crappy days, along with the good ones. I've been around long enough to know that sometimes, those days are one and the same. Take the other day, for instance.
It started off well enough. Oh-dark-thirty is quiet. The cat waits for me to start moving so that she can climb onto my chest and purr for a while. Not a bad way to start a day, even wishing it were closer to six than to three, even wishing she'd lay with her head facing me instead of my feet. Coffee is next. And the poking and prodding with several needles of varying sizes. It gets tot he point where you really can't feel it anymore. One of the tiniest gifts, to be sure. If I wanted to get all spiritually, I could stretch it to a big one - thank you, God, for the grace of better living through chemistry and technology, and access to all the medical miracles that sustain me. Too many people are dying because they don't have it nearly so good as me. Peapod delivery in the barely-lit morning, and the boy is up like a flash, putting the groceries away before I can even wake him and "ask" which we both know is more command than ask, but we like to be polite about it. Hey - this day is kinda looking up, yeah?
Breakfast of cheerios and banana and milk - and really, can there be a more perfect breakfast? No, there cannot. It's my go-to, ever since I was pregnant with The Boy, nineteen-plus-a-smidge years ago. CNN is on in the background - we are so close to some drastic upheaval, I can taste it - even as I worry about the unintended consequences that might flow from all of this turmoil and nastiness and change. Studying at the table, the window open behind me. Mostly spring. It's a great frikkin day.
The boy left, CNN gives way to MSNBC. This textbook is boring as all get out. Time for hummus and chips. Time to take a nose dive on the kitchen floor. The hard, ugly red-Spanish-tiled kitchen floor. For some reason, I mumble "nonononono" as I go down. I've been doing that a lot - falling and mumbling "nononono!" as if my comment will magically stop the falling from happening. It has the exact same effect when the cough starts to attack me, or my legs and feet start to cramp: none at all.
And I thought the carpeted dining room floor was uncomfortable yesterday. Ha!
Well, at least no broken bones this time. Small favors. The day begins to spiral downwards. It can be like that, you know? No matter the lessons I've learned over time, about chance and crappiness and joy and God, I can careen madly down that hill at breakneck speed, in a heartbeat. Forever comes awfully fast in my world. Instead of class, I was looking down the long tunnel of staying home to nurse my fear.
But today, oh today! There was a gift. There was grace. There was love. These were the lessons of the day: stuck in my aloneness, in my fragile body and overwhelmed spirit. It began with a text. Specifically, mine to a classmate, to let her know I wouldn't be in class. Her response was quick.
"Are you ok? Do you need me to come over? Please say yes if at all necessary."
Do I need someone to come over? To do what? Stare at me? Watch me be fragile? Pity me? "Thanks," I texted back. "I'm ok; freaked a bit, but ok." Nothing to see here, folks. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.
The phone rang. "I'm coming over." Then she hung up.
And she came over. She hugged me and talked to me. She asked what I wanted. She asked what I needed. She waited for me to answer every question. I was surprised (not really) that I still have no real vocabulary for this - no true ability to articulate what it is that I want or need. She was gentle and loving and patient. She asked what I wanted for lunch. "I can get it," I said. "What can I get you?"
I refused to let her see my need. This Fixer of Broken Things cannot - will not - be fixed.
"Don't be silly! I came to help you," she said.
Ugh. I hate showing vulnerability. I hate that I need. "I hate being so weak," I mumbled. Like my insistence that a "nonononono" will keep a thing from happening, I cling to the belief that all my various ailments and complaints are subject to my will alone, while I tamp down the fear that all my vulnerability makes me less than and my need will swallow me whole and drag you down with me.
"Oh honey! I didn't come over because you needed anything. I came because I love you,"
And there it was - clean and clear and filled with such exquisite beauty - love. Not because of. Not in spite of. No qualifiers at all. Just love.
There's a lot of crap in my days. My weeks. Months. I carry it with me, as burden and badge of honor both. It is comfortable, a known quantity. It is exhausting, really. But there are these moments, skipping and slipping through all that curious dross of mine that lift me and set me free, that remind me that there is love, unfettered, unbound.
For all the moments, every single one of them, let me say, amen. For the lessons - all of them, but especially for this gift of such breathtaking grace, let me say, thanks.
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