Once again I am reminded of the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, when he says: “They tore off my arms and threw them over there…they tore off my legs and threw them over there…and ripped out my chest and threw it over there.” I laugh, because I have often felt that way in my life, and now here I am again.
Here’s what happened: Two months ago (I’m flabbergasted it’s been that long), my husband suffered an attack of arthritis. I didn’t even know that arthritis could come in such an attack. We kept thinking it would pass. It really seemed to be, but it didn’t. And somehow over these weeks I lost myself in the 24/7 details of nursing and attempting to do all the things around the house he would do.
“This, too, shall pass,” is the wisdom, and this evening, 10 days the far side of my husband’s surgery, I found that I am getting a bit of breathing room and the urge to pick up the pieces of my life. I’m starkly aware, and grateful, for the gift that is my life–my own dreams and hopes and plans. We have to fight to keep these alive. It is our duty to fight the urge that says in weariness, “Oh, what’s the use.”
I’m grateful, too, for the hard days, because it is true, they have always shaped me, strengthened me, far more than the easy times. Once more I am pared down. Things that had appeared so darned important seem not to matter at all. I have a clearer sense of what is truly important to me, such as my chickens and that I must absolutely write fiction again.
Once more, like a thousand times before, I pick up the pieces to begin again.