I'm struggling. I feel heavy, lumbering, awkward. When I try to write smaller...when I try to tame the bramble of my own thoughts...to narrow and sort through the tangle of emotion that drifts through my quiet times, I feel I'm just plucking at shadows.
It's a struggle to even write this blog. My handwritten journal these days is wooden, grasping, repetitious.
Absently, I find myself listing loved ones and friends lost in recent days and years, recording their names carefully and reverently on my journal page. Then I continue with those who are slowly fading from view, somewhat surprised by the length of my list...and ashamed how the dead and dying become lost or forgotten in the midst of our life and living.
No wonder I feel empty. As though I, too, am reshaping, transitioning.
I'm being taught.
I wonder...if you can meet life without understanding death, can you then meet death without understanding life?