Last week was dark. It started out well. On Monday I wrote my blog on envisioning our final years with purpose and hope. I told about my life purposes as being Prayer, Poetry, and People. Writing it was a reminder of why I’m here. It gave me hope. I posted it on Tuesday, a day that turned out to be full of prayer, poetry, and people. My life was moving ahead nicely.
And then came Wednesday—and the
rest of a grim week. My vestibular migraines kicked in with intensity, leaving
me drained of energy. I wondered if this is a reaction to the latest medical
experiment. I wonder if this is how it will be for the rest of my life.
I struggled with the possible failure of a project I’ve been working of for eight years. A group of us began a journal for our retirement community, with residents sharing their stories in writing. People here seemed to love it and I had a sense of contributing to life in the community. But lately it’s be difficult getting people to write. Right now it’s time to get the next issue ready for publication, and I’m realizing I don’t have enough stories. So we’re exploring our options, even wondering if this is the time to end the project. I’m losing sleep over this.
Dylan Thomas’s wonderful poem
about death urges me, “Do not go gentle into that good night!” Resist! Resist!
(I’m not sure that’s the best advice, although I love the poem.) So—do we
resist the death of the journal, find a new way of doing things, fight?
Sometimes (like last week) I just want to go gentle into that good night. Say,
“It’s been good. Goodbye.”
I read through a collection of
poems I’m readying for publication and decided that they were no good, that I
should not waste people’s time with another mediocre book, that I should
probably give it all up.
And then there’s the war in Iran,
current American politics, and on and on. I really do care about all of this,
but last week my reactions accelerated—mainly anger, fear, and hopelessness.
The worse part of the week was
leaning of the unexpected death of good friend. Linda was my age and, although
experiencing the onset of Alzheimer’s, still recognized her friends, still gave
us her loving smile, still knew who loved her. It was a shock that I continue
to deal with. I can only imagine what this is like for her husband, daughters,
and granddaughters.
I’m having trouble gently
accepting this death. I want to fight it. I keep saying NO in my spirit.
While death is such a part of life, especially in this retirement community,
it’s no less of a shock when it happens to someone you know and love.
So—after Tuesday, I did not engage
with prayer, poetry, or people. I isolated myself in my room and binged on a
Netflix series. This is especially wicked of me because, guess what I gave up
for Lent? Right. Netflix. (Actually my record up to this week was perfect. And
I intend to return to the discipline.)
Sorry for all the whining. But
since I was so cheery and positive on last week’s blog, I thought some honest
confession might be in order. Plus, writing is my way of working through
issues.
So—I’m choosing to hope. I’m going
to make a list of all the bright spots in my life that bring hope if I can
manage to notice them. Here’s the list that I’m creating as I write:
--I know there are more decent
people in our country than bad apples. This country is full of men and women of
integrity who want to serve their fellow human beings. Women and men who hunger
after righteousness, as the Bible puts it. And I believe that some of them are
members of the US Congress. I pray for them to have courage to speak up. I hope
they do. I hope we all do.
--One of those decent human beings
happens to be my brother Tom. His decency is mostly unnoticed. He’s a quiet,
gentle person. But he blesses the homeless and addicted men he has befriended,
with whom he meets every week. He loves his wife, kids, and grandkids. He loves
books, is probably addicted to them. But that’s forgivable. Knowing there are
hidden saints all around us gives me hope.
--I affirm that, although I’m not
in the running for a Pulitzer Prize, some of my poems are good. If I keep
writing, maybe the good will cancel out the poor stuff.
--I love my current doctor. She’s
not only a skilled neurologist, she’s a medical researcher and, as one of her
clients, I’m part of her database. There’s always hope for new discoveries.
(And I’m not discounting miracles.)
--Even on my bad-hair, sour-mood,
binge-watching days, my husband tells me I’m the best thing the twentieth-first
century has going for it. (That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but I don’t
mind hearing it.)
--My great-grandson is learning to
talk, one of the greatest miracles known to the human race. It’s amazing and
wonderful to witness. That just has to be a huge source of hope. Life!
--I find great hope in recognizing
where Linda is now. I imagine the restoration of her mind. I imagine her joy.
--I find hope in recognizing my
humanity. God knows it and is not appalled when my responses to life are
immature and ungrateful. I’m human, created by God with options and choices.
While I’m capable of evil, I’m also capable of doing good things. Of creating
beauty. Of loving well and blessing others.
Capable of climbing up out of this
pit, so long as my Lord gives me a hand. And He does.
Hope restored.
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