That's all a drawn out precursor for the obvious observation that I haven't written here in a while. It's not that I don't want to or that I don't have much to say; it's almost more that I have too much to say. And it's hard to boil it all down to a few pretty paragraphs fit for public consumption. So it's easier to not write at all. But ultimately, that doesn't feel right. Sooo, here I am.
How am I? I guess "okay" works, because most of the time, I am indeed "okay". Not really "good". Not "terrible" or "awful" or "miserable". Not "great" or "wonderful" or "marvelous", either. Nope. I made up my mind a number of years ago to always tell the truth when people ask how I am, and as odd as it seems, "okay" is honestly the best response I can come up with these days.
A lot of the initial searing pain of losing Logan is gone. Or maybe gone is the wrong word; it's more that it's morphed into something more manageable. Because I can assure you, your dog and your mom that the pain never goes away entirely; it just changes shape. Some days, the pain is like a tsunami, so big and forceful and blinding that all I can do is batten down the hatches and weather the waves. Those days are less common than they were before, but they still sneak up on me every now and then and smack me upside the head and take my breath away and batter me against the shoreline. Some days, the pain is like a flea. Annoying, but nothing that I can't get rid of with a flick of my finger. (Or a good flea collar.) Some days, I wake up feeling it. Some days, it lies dormant until the least convenient time, only to rear its head at the worst possible moment.
But such is life, as my dad used to say.
I'm here. I'm getting up in the mornings and making lunches and driving the mommy taxi and going through the motions. But I'm also dancing. And spending a lot of time looking up at the sky and noticing how the clouds gleam at sunset and feeling the wind on my face. I'm making a concerted effort to see God every single day. (If you're not aware, that blog is here.) I'm keenly aware that I'm not who I once was.
And I'm trying not to blink too often, because my other kids are growing and I'm getting older and life continues on. As it ought to do.
