Aftermath

I lost my computer. What's one more loss right? Evidently on the heels of the largest loss in life it's just enough to set my sad sorrowful soul off into an explosive fit of grotesque grief once again. Who knew? 
Who knew?!
Aftermath... after an explosive fit of emotion, mourning, melancholy you look around and observe the wreckage. Surely I'm not the only one, the only woman at least, who's regretted what happened in a fit of emotion. I never understood hysteria until the last few years. Perimenopause has wrecked me, and just in time to deal with the "all of it" of losing a child and building a dream and leaving a life I once knew and creating a new life in a new place with the love of my life. The love of my life who is lucky enough to the the "all of it" all over him. Lucky guy. 
So here I am in the aftermath, trying to figure out what to do with myself, my self that I do not know or recognize, although I remember who I once was and know who I want to be.
Here I am. Finally out of the spinning loop of horrible feelings and spiraling thoughts. 
Here I am. On a borrowed computer spewing words for therapy and art and you and me. 
Here I am. I am here. Here sitting on a swing that leans a little too far back to be comfortable, but here I am. (I'll remember to bring a pillow for support next time)
Here I am. Still, for but a moment. Rested after a 2 mile walk, because this I know I MUST do in the wake of the aftermath. I MUST move! I MUST be active, get my heart rate up, get endorphins and dopamine flowing. I MUST because it keeps medicated. Yeah, like a pill. 
Here I am. Repeating wisdom of the ages and science to myself. I've known this about me for years and somehow in the mess of grief, I've lost the motivation to "do" walks, or hikes, or workouts, yet I MUST. 
Here I am. Hearing birds chirping and letting thoughts filter into and out of my head in a beautiful flow of consciousness. 
Write. Write was my word of the year and ironically I've written less, I think, this year than the decade past. Maybe two decades. Irony? Maybe. 
I had intentions to write birthday cards this year to all the most famous people in MY life... you know, hubs, kids, grands, folks, close family, and I can count on probably two hands how many made it to the mail box. 
Travis Tritt sings a song about the best of intentions, having them and failing. There's a melancholy to the song I love, and there's a kindred song in my heart. I have so many good intentions. Maybe too many. So many I don't know where to start or what to prioritize and so nothing happens. Nothing but intending to, which seems so far away from being intentional, but they're related right? One is the thought, one is the execution?
Here I am being intentional about walking or hiking AT LEAST two miles six days a week. I'm on day three... let's see how long I can keep this stretch going. 
Here I am being intentional about writing, by keyboard or pen, fifteen minutes six days a week. Thing is both of these I love... to move and to wonder... to wander if you will, in body or mind.  
Here I am at the end of fifteen minutes.
Breathe... 
Verse of the day: Nehemiah 8:3 - It inspires me, the word of God!

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