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A Very Special Tuesday
Posted: February 9, 2010
February 9, 2010 10:10 a.m.
From where I sit, I see pine trees, clear blue sky and the top edge of Overlook Mountain. It's cold outside. I've had an early morning walk and right now, it's so quiet that all I can hear is my tummy processing a piece of chocolate (too early, I know, but I couldn't resist) the occasional creak of the radiators, and just this minute, a mysterious animal scurrying along the wall (hopefully on the outside of the building, but I'm not absolutely sure....) A minute ago, I looked up from my book and could see (but not hear) a woodpecker climbing up and around a skinny tree. The bird looked hungry and determined and I expect the quiet will be interrupted here momentarily. But no, he's moved to another tree and I can't see him any longer. I wonder what makes him peck at one tree and not another? Does a particular bug appeal to him? Is the position of the tree what makes his mind up? More sun where it's warm? Older bark that's easier to penetrate?
This morning I'm thinking about love and about my son Forrest who died on this day eight years ago. If I allow myself, I can recall every moment of his last hours with me. Right about now, I was singing to him as he lay in a coma that I thought, at the time, was a deep sleep that he needed. My lullabies were an expression of love - a spontaneous gift to ease his mind and help him rest. What I didn't know was that the universe was already helping him to sleep. Some generous aspect of this world provided him with a gentle period of transition. Painless. Effortless. Beautiful. I think of that gift as love. What else could it be called?
Today, I am grateful for the passage of time. I knew that time would heal me and it has. The thing I'm left with is the same thing I have had all along: love.
There was a time when having love was not enough. I needed Forrest's physical being to hold, to touch and take care of. I was desperate to see his eyes and his love reflected back towards me. Now, finally, I'm comfortable with his absence. I miss him. I miss him a lot. But I wake up in the morning now with hope and readiness for whatever life may offer.
There is much to be grateful for, and I am.
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