Landslide

Laying next to my little K last night, snuggling as he struggled into sleep as he always does, this song came on the radio that plays softly by his bed every night to ease his transition from consciousness into his dreams.  And for some reason, this night, the words of the song wrapped around me like a melancholy blanket, heavy and bittersweet.

These past months have been a challenge, watching a person I love desperately struggle with the spectre of relapse; holding k in my arms each night wondering if something about life might ever come easy for him; struggling to balance the choice I made to finally pursue the education I always wanted and being present enough to face the turbulent challenges of raising 3 kids, 2 of whom teeter on the cusp of adolescence and adulthood, the other who simply teeters, wondering where he might land.  And these things make me wonder where I might find that strength to make it through these seasons of my life - whether I can juggle all of the balls without dropping one; whether I can be the person I need to be for all of the people in my life and still be the person I need to be for me. (I would say these are the things that keep me up at night, but thank all the Gods there is medication for that.)   Thankfully, change doesn't scare me, but failing does.  Sometimes I feel like I'm digging out from a landslide, just trying to catch my breath before it shifts again, but somehow I always seem to get my feet beneath me and I'm that person I have no choice but to be, even when the prospect of it seems too overwhelming and I'd rather run away and hide for awhile.  But there is no hiding, I've learned; there is only the path forward and all those little moments of beauty to capture and sustain me when those days come and I can't seem to find the beauty anywhere.  Thankfully, even on those days, there is the knowledge that even if I can't see it, I know it is there to find tomorrow.