I sit down under the monster yet again tonight, a stack of papers to my left, the dishwasher on and swishing, the TV muted but companionship. My eyes blurry as I try not to worry about the headache I have. Having just spent the last 3 days in NY in a parallel universe, one where everything good happens, I'm having a hard time being back home, back to my own reality. Having said that, it's so very true, how lucky we are, it's amazingly true. We have one another and our health (fingers crossed) and a warm home, insurance and now hope too. We aren't battling cancer, our children don't have rare diseases, our parents aren't dying and we aren't struggling just to get out of bed each morning. We're the lucky ones. Our house fire makes us the lucky ones? It seems to be so, however I am still feeling like all I want to do is go home, to my home, and I feel selfish after meeting all these people this weekend who may not live long in their homes, or their children may not know home from a hospital room. Yet my grief is real, to me. It's hard I suppose, how to feel and what to say, on a daily basis I feel that way. Sometimes it's "Lucky us, we survived and we'll get our home back" and other times it seems to hurt so bad that I just want to close my eyes and wish it all, all of it, away.
So what then, what does it take to go on? I don't really know sometimes what it is that keeps my physical body doing all the things it needs to be doing, while my mind is elsewhere. Ah, to live maybe in that parallel universe of hope and compassion? Is that maybe where it all makes sense?
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