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Muddling through

September 19, 2011
tags:

the desert of new mexico

I think it’s easy in the blogging world to write up a million posts about the 18  quarts of pickles I have canned in the last two weeks or the homemade marshmallows I made this weekend (they were good), about how everything is glamorous and good, but a little bit harder to write about the deeper things of life, the harder things that make you cry yourself to sleep or scream out in anger. Thus the quiet that’s been around here lately.

My 17-month old son is developmentally delayed and we are in the process of seeking out a diagnosis for him. It’s been a long journey, and most likely one that will last a lifetime. It’s been the most heartbreaking thing that’s ever happened to me.

I have dear friends who are going through deeply trying circumstances. Circumstances in which I feel totally helpless to or say anything…because frankly there is little I could do or say to make anything different or better.

I am watching my grandmother grow older, and watching my mom deal with the difficulty of this season of life.

Life’s not fair.

In the midst of it all I have this deep abiding sense of emptiness. Not a dark-night-of-the-soul-stuck-at-the-bottom-of-a-pit sort of emptiness. An emptiness which means that all of my own resources have been depleted. That I, on my own, cannot muster up the goodwill, courage or energy to do anything worthwhile. An emptiness that forces me to give up the illusion that I ever had any control in this life anyway. Emptiness that allows me to be an unhindered conduit for the grace and the life that come from somewhere- some One- bigger than me…because that’s the only way something good is coming out of this little lady right now.

And so I take comfort in the small measures of life right now. Knitting, canning, the first red leaves appearing on our trees. And some nights my husband and I cry until there aren’t any tears left. We sit around the tables of good friends and laugh through those tears. We feel the despair of things being broken. And the hope that restoration will come.

 

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6 Comments leave one →
  1. Beth permalink
    September 19, 2011 12:20 pm

    Thank you for writing this. This is exactly how I feel, but I couldn’t describe it. You put it so eloquently. Your honesty is appreciated.

    • September 20, 2011 2:28 pm

      Thanks Beth. Sorry you’re feeling the same way 😦 It was fun to run into you last week.

  2. September 19, 2011 1:39 pm

    I love you. Thanks for sharing everything with me; tears, swears, laughter and homemade marshmallows.

  3. September 19, 2011 5:23 pm

    Amen. Feeling a kindredness to your journey right now.

    • September 20, 2011 2:29 pm

      You should move to Colorado and live in a yurt with me. That would make everything better 🙂

  4. Jenny Southard permalink
    September 19, 2011 9:47 pm

    I love you, Loshi. You are in my prayers.

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