It's Me Again

I went to Cherokee Street the day before Christmas with Carly. We walked into a shop, Lady Jane Antiques, and greeted the owner. I have spoken with him several times before. I remembered that he had a large family he had raised in Kirkwood. As he wished us a Merry Christmas he expressed his concern over having a merry  Christmas himself. With little prompting he spoke of his daughter's untimely and tragic death months earlier. She had fallen from a cliff in Arizona. On an antique dresser close by he showed us a photo of his 26 year old daughter; a thin, beautiful blonde girl with perfect white teeth wearing a black strapless dress stared back at me. It was a lot to take in and to even try to relate to, but I wanted to comfort him somehow by listening. I felt my mind drifting away sometimes in a pleading prayer to know what to say to him. What I did say felt empty for such a serious trial in his life. His only daughter was gone, his wife regularly took lunch to her gravesite, something he couldn't relate to,  and his sons had separated themselves from each other and the family since the accident. He was distraught over the aftermath of her death. 

I told him I knew his daughter still existed and then I left with a last sentiment of wishing him peace on his holiday time with his sons and wife. I thought later that he needed to write down all his feelings. It would be so good for his soul to write. Writing has been so good for me.

And where have I been in one of the most difficult periods in my life on the writing stage?

I have been absent.

I have missed writing on my blog and the feelings I get when I pour out my thoughts that lay side by side in the form of letters and words and ideas. It is so therapeutic for me.

Formulating thoughts about each day makes me more observant in the world. I mostly observe people and relationships. What has become of all those observations in the time I haven't written? Like a backed-up sink drain, I feel clogged and slow. My ability to write feels trapped. I have hesitated trying to begin again. It is out of pure selfishness I have to begin again; to feel whole again.

In the time I have been away I have had some very introspective times. Life has been challenging. I have cried more in the last year than in all my years previous. Crying probably took the place of writing. The tears, in a strange way, remind me of my blessings too. I feel broken and humble and teachable when I cry. 

But in a summary of my experiences I know one thing is certain. 

I feel love and know in a very tangible way that from heaven that I am loved.