So I haven't even taken a shower yet...but living with a child is so damn much fun. When you have a kid like Bodhi, whose enthusiasm is contagious, you find yourself doing things you had no intention of doing with the joyful abandon of a former time...a time when playing was the reason for living and "busy" was a ridiculous invention of adults. The boxes were just lying around, waiting to be recycled, and that bubble wrap was begging for purpose. So here you have it...a fort and robot for protection in no time. As I walked in the house ready for some shampoo, Bodhi hollered, "MOM you forgot something!!! It needs a doorbell!" Of course it does, but that will have to wait until mom is bathed and fresh. Unless Bodhi figures something out sooner, which could bode disaster for my Tibetan bells or any number of potentially repurposed treasures.
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
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