It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.
Yesterday, a variation of a similar phrase hit me like a one-two punch:
“She’ll be okay.”
“You’ll be okay.”
After returning home from the memorials of my dad and Bill, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, let alone feel okay. But, day by day, the suffocation subsided some, and a normal breathing pattern emerged, similar to being hooked to a ventilator.
In. Out. In. Out.
Just make it through this moment. Make it through this moment. Make it through this moment.
The slow intake from The Breath of Life pushed enough oxygen into my being until I could handle breathing again on my own.
And, slowly, a new rhythm has emerged.
For the last 37 days, I sit at my kitchen table, with warm coffee in hand, ready for God to breathe new life into this stagnant air.
And, ever-so-slowly, the overwhelming desire to die, the feeling I’m suffocating, the heaviness, has dissipated like the morning dew.
I started to write freehand, just a pencil and a blank page, whatever was on my heart and mind in the moment. Truth by told, I’m not entirely sure of the content of the filled pages. But that’s not important.
The writing seems to help heal the deep hurt within, and I am grateful.
Actually, I feel a newfound sense of freedom rise up.
A blank page awaits.
A new page.
A new chapter.
A new book.
But, sometimes new requires leaving some things behind–like this blog site.
He is penning a story on this blank page.
Please know, I will be okay.
(Oh, if you’ve tried to contact me, or would like to contact me via email, I have a new address: email@example.com. I’d love to keep in touch :))