I've probably sat here for 20 minutes starting about 5 different posts and then I deleted them, all of them.
I am a little bit nervous about writing. Rather, a little bit nervous about what you will think about my writings. It ain't pretty. It's terribly raw, and probably inappropriate for this forum (most of that got unexpectedly spewed on my dear, dear friend) I am trying to be authentic in my grief, but I am tired.
Tired of what?
I am tired of words. Shocking, for the person who lives and breathes words. I feel like switching to interpretive dance or something ;)! Conveying my feelings with a few Justin Bieber songs or a Rascal Flatt's ballad, sounds therapeutic, "I've got moves you never knew."
If I could go live with the beaver family that C.S. Lewis created, I would happily crawl down into the heaven of that hole. I've already googled, "islands available for purchase in the middle of no where!" There are some beautiful options, let me tell you :)
Old man winter allows a perfect opportunity to hibernate in the shadow of his grey, quiet, peaceful, days. I can almost process my grief there if I am left alone. My inactivity simply blamed on the cold. While nature conveys what my heart seems to be feeling, "death is every where!" However, I find myself clinging to the riches in my life that are very much alive; my insatiable love for my husband, the laughter of my stunning children, the calming smell and taste of a deep, red merlot, and the promise that spring will some day find it's way back into my life.
Until then... winter it is,
~Sara
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