Sunday, August 17, 2014

the good and the bad

Yesterday I met two friends at White Clay for a little exploration on our cross bikes...
I'm so thankful to have found my place within a community that shares a common thread; quite simply the love of the ride.
I haven't felt like being on my bike, I haven't found much solace in the act of moving lately...on foot, on two wheels, at all.
I needed to be coaxed out of my funk, if only for a few hours, to move with the power of my own body...
to puzzle out my worries and despair in the woods among the company of good people.
I found myself enjoying and remembering the strength in my legs and my lungs.
It felt good.
I felt good.

Predictably, today, I found myself way back down.
Like, way way back down.
I encouraged Bill to get out for a few hours on his bike, as he's been doing nothing but taking care of me, taking care of us. Tirelessly and without complaint.
"Go ride, I'll be fine."
Moments after he left, I looked at our daughter and thought, "how do I do this?"
We busied ourselves with Sesame Street and Legos and story books.
I can handle that.
I can read The Shape of My Heart and Corduroy's Busy Day all day long.
I felt bad when she grabbed her sandals and headed to the front door, "Side! Side?" {outside}
"Not right now...it's drizzling. Maybe later."
In truth, I usually love to take her out in the rain, but I just didn't have the energy. Or the interest.
I hate being this way when it comes to my kids because I feel like I am ripping them off.

Bill came home, Maeve was no worse for the wear, and I had managed to avoid any tears myself.
Phew.
Doing this.

This evening, after dinner, I drove to the cemetery alone.
I sat at the foot of my mom's grave and talked to her.
I read "The Owl & The Pussycat," to her (my mom's favorite childhood poem).
I asked her questions and apologized for being a mess.
I pleaded, "please come see me in my dreams sometime..."

Her final resting place is such a serene, beautiful spot.
As I drove away, playing one of her favorite songs in my car with the windows down, a tiny fawn made its way across the path from behind a tree.
Healthy, young, and alive.
It made me smile.
   
  

2 comments:

Fatmarc Vanderbacon said...

excellent post as usual kim.. good on you for taking this on, and know that everyone deals with grief and sadness in different ways. And that's cool. Good on you for being self aware... keep at it, keep your head up...

respect
fm

Jill said...

Echoing Marc, basically. Hugs, hugs and more hugs. Wishing you love, peace, and strength.