I’m so spent. I turned on the tv after work and pulled my girls onto my lap. It’s the height of what parenting I can give right now. Lulu’s little hand slid across me into Valentine’s. Valentine looked at me with a huge grin and big eyes - surprised with the trust of her little sister. We sat so for the longest measurable unit of toddler time - minutes.
The chemistry of grief and love and hope washed through my brain. This brew is complicated and true.
What parent hasn’t
considered unfathomable loss, even if only for the briefest moments,
this week. It feels so much better to give opinions, to engage the
emotions of power than love in fear and empathy.
defense mechanisms want to engage in politics and power and opinions and
battles. Draw lines, wound those who disagree with my version of what’s
best. It’s literally, chemically addictive.
Let’s not. Let’s
slide a hopeful hand to a comforting love, and spread comfort. What I
mean is, I don’t want to live on the inside of my wounds and miss
reaching out for comfort, casting out comfort, sitting in complexity,
stumbling through complexity.
I want to learn from my littles and my betters and my elders and my ghosts and ancestors. I want to mourn. I want to hope.