I am writing this post from a sleeping bag in a tree house.
I spent most of today feeling overwhelmed. Our kids, like us, are struggling to find routine while longing for “normal” to return. A few days ago I sat on the floor holding our son while he sobbed for an hour as he begged and bargained for ways to see family. Our daughter, who is too young to understand the situation, clings to my arms and needs lots of hugs and cuddles leaving me lacking hands to accomplish what needs to get done.
My husband and I need space to think and process, and we struggle to find moments to ourselves in the midst of living the current reality and helping our kids understand what we cannot comprehend. I found a few minutes to myself while scrubbing algae off aquarium walls this afternoon, and I cried. I did not try to cry, and once I found myself alone, I seemed unable to prevent the tears.
A friend posted an article the other day from Harvard Business Review written by Scott Berinato that describes collective grief. I don’t know if that’s what we are experiencing, but I know I feel both loss and lost within that loss.
The wind around me is picking up and though a bit unnerving (I am in a tree), I find it strangely comforting. The wind seems to understand and express what I cannot. It howls. It swirls. I feel a little afraid when it gusts, and then after the gusts diminish, I can hear the melody from the wind chimes still ringing out.
Maybe that is important to remember. Regardless of the confusion and intensity of the emotions within us, those emotions will pause between gusts, and in that pause our souls’ music still plays.
Peace to you all.