The Sound of Wings

There is an adage that teaches us to be kind to others for we know not the burdens they carry. Oftentimes we know not the burdens WE carry ourselves. Random kindness and understanding, handed out before you even realize you need it, is very healing. We went back to the neurologist for his routine checkup and before I knew what was happening, she had whisked me into the social worker while she examined him. I found myself proclaiming such despair, sharing deep loss that continues to pound away at my psyche. It surprised me that I was still suffering so keenly, so sharply, as I have been at this for some time and thought I was making 'progress'. I suppose 'progress' isn't about the lessening of the suffering, but maybe about acceptance of one's lot in life. My husband used to grow flowers...lush, mad explosions of color and exotic shapes. The house smelled like compost for weeks and dirt covered his body from between his toes to inside his ears. He got into it. He would grin from ear to ear, his music--both great and trivial--blasting in his ear buds, sweat running down his back, his hands thrust joyfully into the dirt. Now he stares blankly into his deserted yard, the colors gone to black and white, the lush explosions a mere wisp of memory. Every now and then we still get a single blossom in a random location, obviously having forgotten that it had been forgotten. Its little perky face a tease, a postscript for the master gardner who had intended to tend it all along. He used to look into the yard and see possibilities and color matches. He would exclaim, "I'll never get it all done! There's too much to do!" Now I have to guess what he sees as he turns his eyes to the yard. Does he see the devastation in his mind reflected back at him in the abandoned yard? I look over the landscape of our life and reflect often upon the loss of color and shape and depth. It will be up to me to reshape my life's yard and bring color and hope and springtime back again.