Forts and Achilles Heels (Lisa)

Written in October 2021. I share this holy moment especially with those who are grieving a loved one.

Ours was a homemade fort made of sheets, draped over shaky walls. The fort was encircled by a protective scattering of jagged matchbox trucks, daring any bare feet that approached. Within this safe fortress, Papa and I crawled, at the behest of our grandboy, Prince Mikey. Squished inside with our 3-year-old ruler, we practiced our best yogi moves. I needed to conquer that last elusive inch, achieving a perfect yogi squat with heels soundly on the floor. Being a go-getter and thinking it a safe place to stretch myself, I attempted to bounce ahead to my end goal. Instead, I bobbed my way to an injured Achilles forcing me to rest for days. Ugh!

I used to enjoy being an overachiever but you just can’t jump to the end of every journey. You have to take your time with your heels. It turns out the same is true of healing your heart.

Lately, I’ve been bouncing up and down on what’s broken but-still-beating in me. I’m impatient to get to the other side of my grief and be useful again, do something, be something. I bob up and down trying another new project. I make pronouncements of how, I’ve done it! I’m there! I’m all back! I found my thing! and then I lose all air, all energy, all mojo. I overstretch then feel surprised by the heavy weight of my disappointment. Rushing forward, arms raised high I long to break through a finish-line ribbon that doesn’t exist. It is hard to do, say, think of anything for too long without my daughter Claire, front and center. Leaving the thought of my daughter behind, in this moment, would tear me in two. I just need her.

The truth is, there will be no returning to my old self. How could there be? This is not a hopeless thought but the first step towards embracing a new me. I will be a new hope-full someone and do a new joy-full something, in God’s time. In fact, I already am in small doses. Together we will make small gains, create small joys, pausing to breathe and cry a little or a lot but we will chain them all together into a happy life again. I will not leave Claire behind at some finish line. I will take her with-in me, moving forward, wearing her on my flesh like a fine bead of sweat. There will be no bouncing to an end. It will be a slow, thoughtful walk and no one will be left behind, especially not my Queenie Claire.

Looking out on the great expanse of these past months without my daughter, I begin to see her with me, building forts of safe spaces where I can gently stretch myself. I can see our hands clasped together in the shaping of it all and recognizing this is its own accomplishment. I need to take a moment and yogi squat with that.