I remember when Grandpa Ekberg died. Dad got the news in the afternoon. My sister and I were home. Dad quietly hung up the phone, and called her and I over to him. We came, and the three of us sat on the couch, Dad with his arms around us, and we just sat. I remember looking over at my sister, a confused look on my face. She had a confused look, also, but we just sat with Dad. He doesn’t remember doing that, and I don’t think she does, either, but I do. I was only 13 or 14, not the most selfless age, but I’m glad I sat with him.
I wish someone would sit with me today. I feel so many waves crashing at me from different sides that it’s hard to stay afloat. Then I wonder if I should even have those thoughts of ‘staying afloat’ and if it’s okay just to let go and see what happens. I was up all night with a metallic stabbing pain in my tooth, so I go to the dentist at 4:30. I don’t like going to the dentist. Bill had croup and we were up all night the night before. I teach a class tomorrow night then leave for Bismarck on Saturday to do Dad’s book release party and signing, and what I want to say is that the waves are crashing into me from too many sides, and when I lean one way another one hits. And you can tell me to slow down, but I tell you that I cannot control these things right now. I am sad about someone in my family, and I am worried. I am worried they will get hurt or hurt someone else. I know I can’t do anything about their actions, but I am feeling it today. I watched the Owl City video of “Fireflies” and couldn’t stop crying. That is not a good sign.
I am strong, yes I am. Strong in a GOOD way, in that I usually can do what it takes to keep going in a balanced and powerful and expanded way. I can rise above situations, take the high road, breathe, slow down, work to understand, but I feel raw today, like the wind has stripped off my skin and I am exposed and vulnerable. I don’t mind being vulnerable but I feel like a newborn puppy out in a blizzard. The wind is blowing, I’m separated from everything warm, and I don’t know where I am. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know I’m not alone, and I don’t feel THAT kind of aloneness, but I am feeling something big growing inside of my belly, forming and swelling, and I loosen my gut as I type, focusing on my breath, rolling my neck to unlock it. That helps a little. But what I want to say is that this is tough going right now for me, and I pride myself on handling everything well. It’s okay to feel less than capable and in charge, but it’s this falling apart feeling, like everything I rely on and count on is crumbling around me and I’m watching it. That’s the part that is mystifying, a little frightening, but at the same time also kind of interesting. What will happen next? It’s kind of like an adventure novel - the heroine starts her climb, not knowing if she’s prepared or not, but learns a lot about herself all along the way, but now, when she’s almost there, she starts to run out of steam, and doesn’t know if she can make it or not. You assume she will, or it would be a pretty sucky book, but still - you don’t quite know.
I had a dream a few years back. It was nighttime and I was climbing a hill that I kept slipping down. A black dog joined me for the climb, and I was at the last leg of the mountain, and I was the only one left climbing. Everyone else had given up, or maybe were just climbing somewhere else. I dropped my pen, and looked at it, knowing that if I stopped, I would never make it to the top. I looked ahead and kept climbing. I know I’ll feel other things tomorrow, maybe even later today, but right now I am thinking about family, and friends, and connections, and how everything is held together so fragilely, like with spiderwebs. One little breath and it can all break. So I hold on lightly, and keep climbing, trying to stay afloat.