it was a really long day at work- at the end of a long week- but i'm home now- out on the back porch. the evening is spectacular- warm and quiet and sparkly as the house and street lights begin to come on and the sky darkens and the trees are still naked so you can see through them to more little lights- from other peoples houses. so i can feel alone- but surrounded- at the same time.
it's been almost a year since i began writing here and i'm so thankful. much growth that has come out of it. writing down the days of my life, the minutes even, forces me to pause, and breathe, and step back and see it differently. where i start when i write and where i end up- are different. i gain perspective and meaning- i see it clearly- the ugly parts become more beautiful- the beautiful parts become more special and life-giving, and i become happier- renewed-able to go on. if i was walking- i leave running, standing- i leave skipping, or sitting- i might leave crawling- but at least i'm moving- and my soul, stills.
a lot has happened this year. i've found some parts that were missing, and let go of some parts that were weighing me down and i feel much more whole- put together. i think zoe does too. it's been a good year. for her. for me. we've grown and changed. and we will again.
i've been thinking about the orchestration of things- about divine intervention- and how things have worked together- about what i've learned. looking back now i see how zoe's dark season- led to life blooming in a new way. stepping off the track of academic medicine and into the life of homeschooling and home-making and spending hours with my kids- has given me so much more than i ever thought (despite my grumpy valentines post). it's given me time and space and knowledge - not just about zoe, but about each of them- their needs, their strengths, their struggles.
it's given me small things. small, very valuable things- a moment walking to school in silence except for the rain- making a paper house for a lego man- explaining about how a horn works- listening to someone thank God for the heater coming on- and a cake being baked. holding them, smelling their hair- watching their independence grow.
and all this time and space and change has freed us to think about life outside of the box - to let go of the things we thought mattered, or should matter- and refocus the lens on the things that really do matter. listening to our lives. giving to others. living fully into what we're called into. not being afraid. taking risks. trusting God. and all this has opened our hearts to uganda.
writing here has enabled me to process and to find balance. to remember who i am- and why we're doing what we're doing- to have hope- to choose joy- and that it's OK to forget that and have to start again the next day. and i've found a beautiful community of people who get it- who walk a similar walk. yet what's become most clear- is that we all walk the same path, different versions, different speeds, carrying different amounts of baggage at different times- but none the less, the same. i share this path with my patients living with terminal illness- and i share it with my friends and their appearingly perfect lives with typical children. it's just not so complicated. it's just not so separate.
i've learned i'm not alone. far from it. i'm surrounded. there is unity, and peace. out of the darkness has come light- little white lights- of possibilities and hope. sparkly lights.
night is full now. but it's still warm and through the leafless branches, the sky is twinkling too.
it's been almost a year since i began writing here and i'm so thankful. much growth that has come out of it. writing down the days of my life, the minutes even, forces me to pause, and breathe, and step back and see it differently. where i start when i write and where i end up- are different. i gain perspective and meaning- i see it clearly- the ugly parts become more beautiful- the beautiful parts become more special and life-giving, and i become happier- renewed-able to go on. if i was walking- i leave running, standing- i leave skipping, or sitting- i might leave crawling- but at least i'm moving- and my soul, stills.
a lot has happened this year. i've found some parts that were missing, and let go of some parts that were weighing me down and i feel much more whole- put together. i think zoe does too. it's been a good year. for her. for me. we've grown and changed. and we will again.
i've been thinking about the orchestration of things- about divine intervention- and how things have worked together- about what i've learned. looking back now i see how zoe's dark season- led to life blooming in a new way. stepping off the track of academic medicine and into the life of homeschooling and home-making and spending hours with my kids- has given me so much more than i ever thought (despite my grumpy valentines post). it's given me time and space and knowledge - not just about zoe, but about each of them- their needs, their strengths, their struggles.
it's given me small things. small, very valuable things- a moment walking to school in silence except for the rain- making a paper house for a lego man- explaining about how a horn works- listening to someone thank God for the heater coming on- and a cake being baked. holding them, smelling their hair- watching their independence grow.
and all this time and space and change has freed us to think about life outside of the box - to let go of the things we thought mattered, or should matter- and refocus the lens on the things that really do matter. listening to our lives. giving to others. living fully into what we're called into. not being afraid. taking risks. trusting God. and all this has opened our hearts to uganda.
writing here has enabled me to process and to find balance. to remember who i am- and why we're doing what we're doing- to have hope- to choose joy- and that it's OK to forget that and have to start again the next day. and i've found a beautiful community of people who get it- who walk a similar walk. yet what's become most clear- is that we all walk the same path, different versions, different speeds, carrying different amounts of baggage at different times- but none the less, the same. i share this path with my patients living with terminal illness- and i share it with my friends and their appearingly perfect lives with typical children. it's just not so complicated. it's just not so separate.
i've learned i'm not alone. far from it. i'm surrounded. there is unity, and peace. out of the darkness has come light- little white lights- of possibilities and hope. sparkly lights.
night is full now. but it's still warm and through the leafless branches, the sky is twinkling too.
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