I miss writing, my form of the examen, getting the words out of my heart and head and onto the paper. I quit writing because my anger felt too prominent on the page. Angry at my illness and angry at the lies I had believed about race and politics and religion.
I don't want to be less angry, I want to be more open and articulate about where my anger comes from, and use my words to move me along to serenity. To accepting my new normal, to accepting that what cannot be changed.
My writing was often about my interaction with my sons. Can you believe that they are grown now? Oh they may be home for a few months here and there for the next few years, but their time sheltered under our roof is over. On cold nights, I pray for them, I hold them in the Light of God's Love and I ask that they would be kept warm.
I envision blankets and flannel sheets, warm homes and warm places of belonging. It seems strange, even as I pray it, I know there is an more to my longing for them than physical warmth. But I don't know what this desire for them to be warm represents, I just know it is strong and on cold nights when our house feels empty, I pray for warmth in their lives.