For these eight days away from home at home, mom has been whole. For me, anyway. I close my eyes and I see her through my front window. She’s weeding the walkway to my porch.
Some mornings I stand on the edge of a steep knowing, a transformational space of understanding, embracing the brilliance that opens infinitely before me. Others, the land is flat beneath my feet, the same as it always was, closed off from the mystery beyond by a patch of trees, shadows, confusion. I’m fine and I’m falling apart. These are both true.
We’re all broken. But together, we’re a little more whole.
Mixed feelings are not elegant, graceful, certainly not the kind of trinket you take out to show off. They’re the scribble-scratch of the heart. We resist them: surely we’re more mature than that! We want to look away, but denying the mixed of these feelings is untrue. Unfair to the heart.