I know it's just November, and fall still has its days. But it's dark early, the last late night outside over, leaving me nostalgic and it's not even winter yet. It's hard not to walk around thinking about the pastness of it all.
Or thinking about the future.
The worst part of parenting is not the work. It's not the diapers, it's not the lack of sleep, it's not the tantrums or the fevers or the crumbs. It's the fear.
Love, coupled with the responsibility of keeping a person alive, is a crazy cocktail. The burden does not lighten when they become competently ambulatory, when they learn not to touch electrical outlets, when they can cross the street safely. Worry actually worsens.Let me at least be afraid of the right threat.
Like a cow chewing regurgitated thoughts, it feels obscene to gnaw on my fears. But what if I don't deserve it all, or worse, what if I'm messing it all up.
There is so much going on in the world. And in the our own zip code.
I know that our big and our busy is not any better, that our wonder and our worry are not any worse, than anyone else's.
We're not dealing with a terminal diagnosis or a tragic deportation. We're not looking for food to fill our plates, for gunmen around the corner, for a safe place to sleep.
We do not lack too much of a single thing.
Thinking too far back or too far forward removes me from the opportunity to stand at the intersection of right now, under naked branches, and swoon.
Shedding is part of a tree's strategy to survive, to conserve energy.
Let me at least let go of the right things.