Breathing space

Nothing seems to want to unfold in a straight line these days. Moments of sweetest joy are followed by rough jolts of sorrow. I know, this is the stuff of life. But still. This past week has been a tough one - which possibly shows, even though I've not known how to articulate the half of it.

There's so much ache out there. In here. I feel as though a big chunk of cartilage is lodged in my throat - a heavy shape that I can neither swallow nor pry out. The throat is a place where grief sits. Which makes sense. Yesterday I learned that a dear friend's chemo treatment is not yielding the results we all so much hope and pray for. Another friend is in hospital awaiting bypass surgery. There are many reasons to stay awake, to light candles.

On Tuesday, my much-loved adopted grandmother farewelled her home of six - nearly seven - decades. At ninety, she grieves - as though it were yesterday - the loss, three years ago, of the man she's loved since her early twenties. How must it feel to leave behind all you have known? When I talked with her yesterday, she said we were not to worry about her, that life is about change, that she's at peace with this new reality, though 'of course, there are small adjustments to be made, dear.'

It's strange, isn't it, how things can change without a moment's notice. One minute, the world looks and feels crisp, benevolent and full of promise; next thing you know, the safe and familiar are tipped on their heads. I find myself looking inwards and outwards with a mix of astonishment, shock, and compassion.

For reasons largely unknown, these are muddle-some, meddlesome days. I don't know when last I felt this full and this wretched. I've been wondering, too, whether I might need to take a pause from blogging for a while.

It doesn't help that Sage, my sweet tabby companion, went missing on Friday. He's not used to being beyond the safety and cosiness of home and will be lonesome, hungry and frightened. The thought of him possibly not finding his way back to me has me weeping. I am listening for him, willing him please to come home.

On a brighter note, yesterday was the Equinox - the joyful advent of Spring in the Northern Hemisphere, Autumn in our Southern one. For the next few weeks, we will share similar day/night temperatures. The distance between here and there will not seem so great.

I wish I could draw a rim of light around everything.