If death was a door–in a symbolic way, it is—but if it is not a violent or painful act, but could be carried out as simply as by entering, I think I might be very tempted to open that door.
At some point between when my beautiful little beast woke me up in the middle of the night with a harrowing cry because she was no longer able to get herself up on her old and frail four, and when all the numbers on the monitor that was hooked up to my dad in St. Vincent Hospital rapidly dropped as he slipped away into the unknown before my eyes, a great storm erupted within me. And I still have no command over it.
Since then and now, I’ve learned that there is a whole lot more than meets the eye as far as human existence goes. We smile. We laugh. We go about our business as usual, but really, underneath it all, what is going on?
Moody, sensitive, dark, depressed… If these traits make up an artistic temperament, I think I’m some of them, but not all of them. Even though I can’t seem to escape this manic grip within, I know that there also is an incredible amount of light in this same being that wakes me up everyday and gets me on my feet, helps me put on my clothes, smile and carry on. Obviously, most days, the light wins.
My hat’s off to you who figured out how to live this thing called life. I wholeheartedly concur with you who might judge me for my weakness, because I know that my circumstances are not so exclusively special. We all deal with it, Joy, whatever it is. You’re not the only one.
I will show up. I will show up mulishly to do my part whether it amounts to anything or not. I will hold my own in this “Great Big Storm,” thank you, Mr. Ruess.
Just like the poet who stopped by woods on a snowy evening, I too have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.
No need to rush. The door will always be there. This we know for sure.