I'm not even sure if "regrouping" is a word, but I'll use it anyway. I am regrouping. Taking a breather. Resting on my laurels. Catching my breath. Okay, "regroup" is a word - Merriam-Webster just told me so and I trust her authority on words.
The dilemma I face in sharing my philosophies on the brighter side of life (i.e. "the good news") is that I don't always see the bright side. Whatever glasses I wake up with in the morning, is how I see life on that particular day; and trust me, I have a lot of different shades. On days that my glasses are clear, I can see through all the hardship to something that makes life a little more bearable; on other days, all I see is greatness.
But then, in all honesty, I know in my heart that when someone is diagnosed with cancer, or loses a loved one, or suffers from depression, or has immense financial worries -- the good news I write of is not always what we want to hear. I am afraid of minimizing the pain of others. When I am hurting, the last thing I want is some Pollyanna telling me to "look on the bright side." I want to slap her upside the head and say "Okay, you experience what I've experienced, and then come back and tell me how great life is." I don't want to be that girl. I don't want to minimize the pain or suffering that's real, that's there and that sooner or later happens to all of us.
And so, I woke up today with glasses on that make my heart ache for the grief that I know is real and I know is out there, on so many levels. I know there is a bright side, but today I am just not feeling that I can write about it, at least not without diminishing the darker side of life, which deserves acknowledgment.
Yesterday, I started a one day a week afternoon job picking up two wonderful boys from school and taking care of them in the afternoon until their mother gets home from work. It was the first day of school. I excitedly went early, and waited patiently. Somewhere in the crowd of children running out the doors to greet their parents, I could see my daughters' faces, running up to greet me with excitement to share their first day of school. I could hear them yelling "Mommy! Mommy!" and feel them throwing their arms around me almost knocking me over. I panicked. I had to consciously stop my thoughts in mid-stream because I could feel the lump in my throat growing and the tears coming. Those days are gone. They are gone forever. It is me that runs to them now, that calls them, that waits for their acknowledgment in their 20 something year old very busy lives.
When Monica was in the third grade, she went to hold my hand. Without thinking, I pulled my hand away. Maybe it was a hot day, maybe I was feeling smothered, I don't know why I pulled my hand away, but I did. Do you know what she said? She said in her little eight year old voice of wisdom "Mom, you should hold my hand now while you can, because one day, I'm going to be too old and I won't want to hold your hand anymore." I grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. But she was right; the time has come.
Fortunately, we regroup, we breathe, we rest on our laurels a little, we grieve, we cry. And then we hope that a new day brings us a new set of glasses. Until that new day comes, and I know that it will, my grief is real and I know that yours is too.
Sweet dreams and always GOOD dreams,