Work, study, keeping on top of housework, bills, cleaning, making small improvements around me; tweaking.

This is my life.  Right now.

Perhaps I am like my friend Bobby and the season affects my mood, or perhaps I am being true to my nature and reflecting deeply.  These few moments before I begin my morning routines a like inhaling.

Good morning.  Today I know what I must accomplish.  Today I have a clearly defined plan.  Today I am okay and busy.

Busyness is a tool I have found useful when grieving.  Moving into something that consumes me, where I am needed and indeed can make a positive difference helps me.  It may not help everyone, but me it does help.  It is other and different.  It balances what doesn’t work and what has broken ins ome odd way.

It is a refuge where I can suspend introspection under sheer weight of others’ expectation.  It is a rung on that fragile ladder I know I can step onto that hauls me step by step out of this pit I sometimes fall into.  The pit is self PITy.  This pit of cold and dank and dark.  I can hear the moans and groans and the occasional sob.  Nothing on the surface; all inside.

I also know it is okay to sometimes look within and work through all this.  These are my real feelings. Mine. Genuine. Real.  They, too deserve a voice.  Perhaps in capturing them in words it will let some of the light in. They may find wings and fly towards the light.

I acknowledge within me an unending melding of dark and light. I accept both.  Indeed, I embrace both.


4 comments on “Busyness

  1. Thanks Sammi. Sometimes wrapping all this in words helps me. I figure perhaps knowing someone else feels all this may helps someone who cannot express themself as I do. None of us are alone.

  2. I wish I could express myself as well as you can. It’s quite amazing to read your posts (I particularly like “POWER”) and I identify with your words. Know that I’m thinking of you as you wade through this difficult time.

  3. Thanks Westy. Nice to know.

  4. just to let you know, I’m still reading you…..

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