Inwardly I “hmm”-ed when hearing stories about folks keeping the ashes of their pets in their home. Tucked under the bed. Stashed in a closet. Whatever. Continue reading
For those tracking my blog over the last week, you might be noticing a trend by now: infertility. Words keep tumbling out from me. And I think that’s going to be a thing for a bit. I’m in process of naming a lot of things. This is helping me feel sane (even if it makes you worried about me), so I’m keeping on with this adventure. If you’re bummed you missed the last posts that started this theme, you can find them here and here.
So, why all this infertility writing? I want the freedom to choose a different story, to be able, with God’s help, to resurrect life from ashes. In order to do that, I think I need to name the dream being incinerated and the pain of watching it go up in flames.
I’ve been talking about the death of the dream of biological children. And, how do we grieve death? We tell stories. We share what a person was to us — their quirks, charms and foibles. We mourn what we know we lost and also what could have been.
This is the post I wanted to start with yesterday. And then I felt like I was throwing up a Jesus smokescreen and cheating. So, I held back and wrote the messy, gritty one first. If you missed it and want to read it, you can find it here.
To be fair, this post is probably depressing, too. Jesus just happens to be a bigger figure in this post.
Laying flat on my mat, tears spilled out of my eyes unbidden. Moments like these make me hate going to yoga. I think of myself as emotionally intelligent, but mainly that just means I do pretty decent on picking up emotions in other people. I’m excellent at ignoring and stuffing my own, particularly those volatile ones that make me feel unholy or unfeminine or like I’m going to drown in a well of sadness.