It's cold again, yesterday's puddles frozen into brittle plates of ice. The grass which laid itself down in soggy, straw-colored waves, now frosty, crunches underfoot. We had a glimpse of spring, but now a northern wind helps preserve swathes and banks of snow that linger wherever there is shade. Red-stained twigs grip tight their swelling buds.
Days like this when the sun is blinding and the wind too brisk and cutting, can breed melancholy in me. The bitter cold works to cinch up the muscles in my neck and shoulders in ways akin to anxiety I sometimes feel over my son and life itself.
At least for now, however, I know where I am, know who I am, and that I am loved by some. I know those around me (usually. mostly) and what I must attend to. I know I am taken care of and thought of. I know I have an adorable son who relies on me, and a loving, ridiculously hardworking husband who makes everything possible for us.
There is salve for melancholy.
Two nights ago we made dinner for our besties who have a son not unlike our boy Calvin. Our boys did not (really) come up in conversation. Yesterday, I commiserated with a friend living in Los Angeles who shares the lamentable experience of mothering an intellectually disabled child with intractable epilepsy. Last night Michael and I ate grilled ham and Swiss on sourdough while watching a movie called Lady Bird. Tonight I'll share an early cocktail at a favorite bar with a lovely who I never get to see enough (and who has a daughter not unlike Calvin). Tomorrow night we will meet someone new from the art world who might become a friend. Right now I am writing. Though not a record, Calvin is on his eighth day without seizures; I'll take it.
Sometimes life feels fleeting, no time to do or think. At others, impossibly inert, with all too many hours to consider failings, fears, loss, hurt.
Days like this when the sun is blinding and the wind too brisk and cutting, can breed melancholy in me. The bitter cold works to cinch up the muscles in my neck and shoulders in ways akin to anxiety I sometimes feel over my son and life itself.
At least for now, however, I know where I am, know who I am, and that I am loved by some. I know those around me (usually. mostly) and what I must attend to. I know I am taken care of and thought of. I know I have an adorable son who relies on me, and a loving, ridiculously hardworking husband who makes everything possible for us.
There is salve for melancholy.
Two nights ago we made dinner for our besties who have a son not unlike our boy Calvin. Our boys did not (really) come up in conversation. Yesterday, I commiserated with a friend living in Los Angeles who shares the lamentable experience of mothering an intellectually disabled child with intractable epilepsy. Last night Michael and I ate grilled ham and Swiss on sourdough while watching a movie called Lady Bird. Tonight I'll share an early cocktail at a favorite bar with a lovely who I never get to see enough (and who has a daughter not unlike Calvin). Tomorrow night we will meet someone new from the art world who might become a friend. Right now I am writing. Though not a record, Calvin is on his eighth day without seizures; I'll take it.
Sometimes life feels fleeting, no time to do or think. At others, impossibly inert, with all too many hours to consider failings, fears, loss, hurt.
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| Photo by Michael Kolster |
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