I share the daily dark and twisties; it seems right to share the bright spots, too.
Friday afternoon, headed to visit Logan.
I’d stopped at my favorite little beach along Lake Michigan. I was already running late because of construction traffic, so I stopped to look at the beach but didn’t take the time to go down the steps and get my feet wet. Maybe it was the sound of the water that drowned out my usual background noise. Maybe it was the view. Maybe it was driving down the interstate with my sunroof open and my music cranked, knowing Logan was at the end of that road and Cassidy was just a week away. I don’t know. Whatever the cause, for a solid hour Friday, I felt . . . like myself. Uncorked.
I felt my own age, not the decades-older age that’s infiltrated my life. My body relaxed, comfortable in the driver’s seat. For that chunk of time, my neck and shoulders weren’t knotted, my brow wasn’t furrowed, my jaw wasn’t set in a just-get-through-it grimace. I sang along to my “Feel Better” Spotify playlist — an unlikely mix of everything from Eric Clapton to The Highwomen, Matt Redman to The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. I imagined the stories of other drivers and took in the changing terrain as I drove across the state. I enjoyed myself.
It happens, thank God.
I’d be lying if I said each day offered a generous slice of lightness. That wasn’t even true Before; it’s sure not true After. Still, it does happen. I welcome the lightness, whether it’s hanging out with one or two people, playing cards with a dozen Tinkerbells, or out on my own. I doubt I’ll ever again take those moments of lightness for granted; they’ve become beacons in my darkness.
I don’t know how to make those moments last; maybe we never truly know. Right now, darkness is never far away and the transitions from blessed light back to dark are sudden and shocking, inevitable and disheartening. The transitions from dark to light, though? They feed my soul.
Woods Writes 