When Mila was little, she loved exploring farms. But she can no longer see the colors of Fall or run through the rows of vegetables. So I take her there and tell her what I see. The striped gourds, the baskets of dirt-covered potatoes, the kitty cat climbing up the tree. I run her little fingers over the bumpy squash and the cold cabbage leaves. Her eyes always tell me she's listening.
Mila is always sitting these days, no longer able to walk. The pain of seeing her confined to this position weighs heavily on me. Sometimes, I lean her forward and make a place for myself right behind her. I rub her shoulders, sing her a song, braid her hair. When I pull her close to my body, I feel her warmth.
Each morning, I wake up and say out loud the words that I hope will guide me through the day. “Today is a new day... a chance to recognize that with the darkness comes a gift of light...”
Sometime in the last few years, I remember pleading out loud for a life without pain. But the words didn’t feel right. I knew my pain would always be with me. Yet I desperately wanted joy. And then, one day, I looked down and realized I was finding a way to hold both...
I woke up this morning feeling overwhelmed with what I’ve committed to, how much of my life I am allowing the world into see. So I drove up the mountain and walked through the changing Aspens... thoughts came so naturally. I was reminded of the relief I feel when I share. There is nothing to hide. This is me, today.
