Reading is quite a distraction from the difficult reality that is setting in- small intruding moments that slip in, sting and linger. They are little things, feelings of waiting for The MeeMaw Report in the morning, or forgetting for a moment that she isn’t in her little house listening to the radio, the first Sunday back at church without her, or remembering her last “meal” of hot chocolate and melted Jell-O.
Along N Braeswood near Greenwillow, there was a water fountain topped with an armadillo. As a child I was a little obsessed with this armadillo. Right around Christmas Mr. Armadillo was taken, removed or stolen. I don’t know why this makes me sad but it does. I think of MeeMaw every time I see it’s missing. For 25 years I purposefully looked for that armadillo, and today I purposefully look away. I read (or attempted to) at her funeral. It wasn’t the beautiful reading I imagined, but rather the tender reading she deserved. I wish desperately I were more like her.
The past few weeks I have been forced to ask for help- something I hate to do. I cringe when I admit that I can't do it all, bear it all, understand it ALL. How prideful. :/
Logically I tell myself, "Self, you can not do this on your own. Self, don't say you are 'ok' if you are not." I know there is a time to mourn, I do not have to feel peace in every moment. And I know that it is impossible to carry the weight of all things on my own. I know it, but I still feel all icky. (Thank you out there for all this help that I know I need, but am too stubborn to ask for, and your giving it anyway.)
In review:
I am enjoying Galeano’s Memory of Fire trilogy, and wish I had time to read it pleasurably. In order not to say anything negative about Brit Lit, I choose to say nothing at all. :)
This week:
Our Town- Wilder
Century of the Wind- Galeano
An Essay on Projects; Shortest Way with the Dissenters; A True Relation of the Apparition of Mrs. Veal- Daniel Defoe
The Tatler; The Spectator- Joseph Addison & Richard Steele
3 comments:
Analee,
thank you for your honesty. It is so beautiful and a reminder to me that we are all fellow pilgrims, fellow strugglers at times in this passage we call life. I know Sunday I went to HEB just feeling ok. Then I happened to turn down the soup isle. " I need to look and see if there are any soups Memaw would like". That thought just comes and then I know-- "No more shopping for soups, Kay" and I start crying in the soup isle at HEB. Not hysterical tears, just that sadness of missing her. Then I make myself stop and think that she is OK now, One of the last things she told me was in a whisper, " im' ok, im' ok i'm ok" about 5 or 6 times. And she really is ok.
Luv,
tia Kay
I know the armadillo you are talking about! And I fully understand how things like that can become symbolic of areas of pain in our life.
It is liberating sometimes to get over the hump and ask for help. I hope you will continue to do that, and please ask us if there is something we can do.
Dear Frances is so loved (yes, is, because she will always be part of our lives) that you're not weeping alone. Her death has made me miss my grandparents, too, again, still... so I guess some of my tears are for them.
Re. the Brit lit (which I wish I could take for you because I'd love it). I found that reading list interesting. Caught one I hadn't read: Century of the Wind- Galeano
So I thank you for completing my edcuation.
Post a Comment