One of my college professors repeatedly used the phrase, "Write with fury, edit with phlegm." I never embraced it. I think I get stuck in the editing of my life, the back and forth, the pausing, the reflecting, the ruminating. I rarely let things flow because I'm constantly reworking.
Today I'm giving myself a few minutes to unload the words in my mind -- and I can already tell it will be hard to stay away from that delete key! (which I just misspelled, and by the way, I mistyped the word misspelled.) Sigh. Hooray for auto-correct.
Look at that photo. The sunny, bursting forsythia blossoms share the same branch with a dead leaf from last season.
My life is full of old leaves. I have a hard time letting go of hurts -- both those I've experienced and those I regret I've caused to others. I look for patterns, which means I try to make sense of what has happened way, way back. I spend a fair amount of time in the past. My husband hates it.
We marked the first year after his brain surgery. Well, I mean I marked it. He doesn't like to talk about it. "I want to move on," he says. Me, I still feel so shaken by the events and pondering what could have been. I don't know if it's like when you meet a person for the first time and notice the uniqueness of her name. Then, you hear that name everywhere. I hadn't known the term subdural hematoma before -- aneurysm, yes, but not something like Jeff's trauma. This past year I have learned so much more, including watching friends' loved ones suffer from subdural hematomas, and it all points to how very, very blessed we were for our outcome. Still, I almost lost my husband, and a year later I am stuck. I am so lonely. If it was a wakeup call, how have we improved?
I still need to process so much, and I don't know how.
Samuel has started losing his teeth. With classmates losing them in kindergarten, he wondered if he would ever have a turn. He thinks he's late to the party in second grade.
There is a tree in my neighborhood that keeps its leaves late into the winter. It's like teeth, my father-in-law once pointed out. On some trees the old leaves don't leave until new buds push them out.
Stumped with what to say next, I just returned from walking outside to my backyard. I yanked the brown leaf away from the sunny, bursting blossoms and buds of promise.
It felt good to crumple it in my hand.
