Musings of a Meandering Mind

The silence is deafening.  No life. No movement.   Unsettling. Hear myself breathe.   In. Out. Rhythmic.   Darkness throughout. No light. Shadows dance. Unsettling. The clock's hands move. Tick. Tick.   Rhythmic. Too tired to move. Too tired. Crave sleep. Weary. Heart beats loudly. Lub dub Rhythmic. Eyes slowly shut. Thoughts drift. Dreams begin. Weary. Breaths much deeper. Slow. Soft. Rhythmic. Asleep.

As I write this letter, I’m in a state of uncertainty.  I’m grieving the loss of my Walter and am just a shell right now.  Knowing that I need to move forward, but don’t yet have the energy or will to dream, feel and redefine who I am.  It will come in time. I’m writing you this letter in hopes that my wisdom, experiences and regrets have shaped my future in a positive light.   I assure you I am trying to realize my capabilities and celebrate my successes so that the next thirty years are lived to their fullest – filled with confidence, happiness and stability. There are a number of things I hope you’ve accomplished over the years.   I hope that you’ve remembered to see beauty around you, that you’ve celebrated and shared it – be it by word, pen or paint.   I hope that you’ve forgiven those who’ve held you back, caused you pain or sadness – most importantly yourself. I hope that you’ve learned to see yourself through the eyes of those who love you – and truly see your beauty

One of my dearest friends introduced me to a course created by Julia Cameron called T he Artist’s Way .  At first, I questioned if I should even consider participating as I would never consider myself an artist.  I do admit I’ve always loved to dream, to write, to create.  I wasn’t very confident and rather critical of my skills.  I thought maybe one day I’d be ambitious enough to hone these skills, maybe even be good at something.  Then life got in the way.  When I thought of doing something ‘artsy-fartsy’, I often thought it’s an impractical use of my time.   I would then use that as a reward – if I just got this long list of chores done, then I could have fun being creative.   After trudging through, task after task, I was drained and lost any inspiration.   Fortunately, though, every so often I had opportunity to be a bit creative – help the kids with projects; invitations, theme parties; costumes; decorations; Christmas letters; crafts.   I felt refreshed, recharged,

Walter Kennedy,  My muffin.  My love.  My life.   As we approach five months since I last touched his hand, kissed his lips; I still feel empty, numb, lost, mundane.  Each day takes me farther and farther away from him.  My calendar is filled with 'first without'  and memories 'last time with'.  Life  feels surreal.  When this reality hits me, it  practically takes my breath away.  Mo ments where emotions are overwhelming, physical pain, crushing my chest, my broken heart.  As time moves on, I  become more familiar with this new existence.  Gradually there are more m oments whe re my smile is genuine and I do  have a sense of 'normalcy'.   His presence gave colour and vibrancy to my life. And his loss dulled it to a monochromatic grey. In time I'll add color to my palette, but will never match the verve we had.   h Waves of emotion appear without notice.  Some arrive with a crash shaking my foundation.  Others like a ripple...slowly enveloping my

For most of my life, you’ve been by my side.   A quiet whisper in my ear.   Like a part of my shadow, you were there as I navigated through the decades.   Where did you come from?   When did you appear?   And why?   I look back at my earliest memories and remember a happy, energetic, inquisitive girl.   Eager to try new things, make new friends, almost fearless at times.   She wanted to belong. That little girl would be one of the first to volunteer, was willing to share and even brave enough to volunteer to read a poem by herself at a school assembly.   She tried her best even though sitting still and paying attention was hard.   She wanted to do well.   She tried so hard to read letters and numbers.   She wanted to make her parents proud.   She had an imagination.   She loved to create.   She loved to play. She was a child.   But you were not there. I feel a sadness wash over me as I continue to reminisce.   The torment she endured, the cruelty, the names echo through my mem