Tuesday, April 16, 2013

When Your Heart Tells You To Stop


My youngest woke up hungry and asked for a chicken sandwich for breakfast this morning, so I preheated the oven because he likes his patties 20 minute oven crunchy and not 3 minute microwave soggy. While I took care of his breakfast, he dressed and washed up, packing his books for school. It wasn't until 7 minutes before we had to leave when he sat down to eat that I realized I had forgotten to put his sandwich in the oven.

The cashier at the QuikMart who rang me up today had to call out after me, "You forgot your salad!" At the end of the conveyor belt, I had left the only thing I had gone in for, a fast lunch -- distracted by the Wall Street Journal's front page and the picture there, of Boston yesterday.

This morning I had an appointment for our minivan that needed new brakepads, not an inexpensive way to spend an hour and a half. The service tech popped his head into the waiting room to tell me my car was ready and I could check out anytime. Thanking him quickly, I looked up briefly from the television and its scenes from Boston, then got up and walked through their garage, getting in my car. I barely drove out of their lot when I realized I had never paid for the work.

It was on twitter yesterday afternoon that I heard of the bombings in Boston. Clicking over to Facebook for news snippets, I saw that it was real. And worse than the tweet had shouted. Leaving to pick up my children from school and then drive them to all they needed to do, we came home and I slammed a dinner together of sauteed chicken breasts with rice made in 20 minutes. The pan that sits still dirty in the sink this morning shows that I couldn't do more than that.

I can't focus today.

I feel unsettled, without seeking out more news on twitter or Facebook, I am saddened, shocked, heart broken. My day needs me to keep doing, though it feels like moving through mud: cleaning, doing, driving, running. But everything I do since yesterday keeps coming out with a part missing, something forgotten, things left behind, just unable to do it right.

I can't pull it together. Tears are half a second away, the lump in my throat is almost to an ache.

Sometimes you have to stop moving and take the time to honor and bless, acknowledge and bow your head. Take yourself away from everything, and find that corner, that space, wherever it is, and let the silent tears slip and release the tug in your throat.

I made myself still today, each tear sending out love and fellow humanness for all of us on this planet together. Praying so hard for the pain of loss and the sting of shock and disbelief for so many. I paused and meditated with a heart pulsing with shared sorrow, because there is something inside that won't let me go on as if there wasn't a rip in so many lives yesterday. I think of what I saw and read about what happened in Boston and it's no wonder that I can't concentrate on anything else and that everything takes twice as long to figure out and do today, I mean, Look at our fellow man.

Think on him.

Thinking on you today, Boston, with a full, still heart.

* * * 

35 comments:

  1. We all appreciate the thoughts. I'm sad that it's now "Boston" in an entirely different way than it's ever felt to me before, but yet it's still my home.

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    1. I don't know what to do. I just want to do something, but I'm in such a fog of denial.

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  2. Replies
    1. LOVE is the most powerful weapon we have against hate and pain. And loss.

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  3. I am still but I know it won't last. I know it won't. The anger will engulf me; I'll try to tamp it down. It will fester. I will tell it it has no place here. It can take the fear and go. Something in me is telling me to do, go, run toward something that needs me. Dirty dishes be damned.

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  4. I was not smart enough to take myself to a quiet corner. Instead I just tried to keep quiet in the midst of other volunteers where I was this morning, and then when I did speak, I was a total crank...shame on me for not telling those around me that I enjoy sharing some space in the world with them instead of making them feel slighted...shame on me, and thank you for a reminder of a better way.

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    1. Again, you bless me with your words. Always, dear friend.

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  5. Replies
    1. Oh, Jennie, THE pain of this. THE PAIN.

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  6. Thank you. I feel restless today also. Unsettled. That's a good word to describe the state I'm in. Isn't it funny that somehow having what I think I am feeling written out in text by someone eloquently helps me manage it. Thank you.

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    Replies
    1. We've always been such kindred spirits... xo

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  7. I just can't process it. I can't begin to imagine what it's like for the people there, what they're going through. Here I am, comfortable on the other side of the country and it's impossible to understand. But I feel it.

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  8. I cannot absorb yet another horrific attack on innocent victims. I just can't. So I turn my attention to the people around me and try to make what connections with others I can.

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    1. I can't either. I don't want to believe it. SUCH HATE.

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  9. I think it's instinctive to try to keep going and not feel it. But I also think it's better to stop for a minute and be human. To acknowledge the disbelief, to feel the sadness. It's human to feel those things, to be scared, to be angry. Sometimes we need to allow ourselves to be that human and to think about our fellow people.

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  10. My throat was tight all day today. Just holding on to the good in humanity....don't want to give energy to the bad. My thoughts are with the families...and all of Boston...and the rest of us.

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  11. I wish I had read this at the beginning of my day, instead of at the end, but my email always delivers your post updates almost a full day late. As you know I wrote about today too, but this is the post I should have written. I tried to be strong for my post today. I wasn't.

    I am all of this today too. I can't function. I had client obligations in the morning and it was 20 minutes before I started my Skype session that I saw the picture of the little boy who died, and I started crying all over again. I knew I had to pull myself together quickly.

    But the rest of my day was like dragging myself through mud. My husband asked if I was planning on cooking tonight - he had activity duty with my son - because if so we would need to go grocery shopping. I said I need to stay in and write my blog post. He said OK, and we went out to eat instead. I couldn't cook this evening.

    So thank you for writing this. I wish I had had the courage to.

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    1. Ceci, if you were here, I"d listen to your stories, of how you grew up in Boston.

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  12. I gave myself permission to stop and be silent for a little while, for all those who were affected by the tragedy. Love you.

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  13. Stillness is so important at times like this. You need time to consider and digest.

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    1. Yes. We can't keep pushing as if it's an ordinary day. The world feels it, it's not right, it's not balanced. WE have to stop and just acknowledge the feel of that loss, for so many.

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  14. Nicely said.

    And true - when you get into a fog of sorts, you gotta respect the fog. Listen to what it's telling you. Maybe dwell in it for a little while, until the right idea for action comes to you.

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  15. I think you need to be extra kind to yourself and remember that your heart is already raw right now. When in the midst of personal grief, grief for others can be down right debilitating.

    PS- i wrote a little something for you today. you've been in my thoughts.

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  16. "I paused and meditated with a heart pulsing with shared sorrow, because there is something inside that won't let me go on as if there wasn't a rip in so many lives yesterday."

    I could not have said it better.

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  17. The helplessness is the hardest part. xo.

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  18. Breathing in, breathing out. Hard to function but not being useful is worse.

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  19. This really grabbed a hold of me..."Sometimes you have to stop moving and take the time to honor and bless, acknowledge and bow your head. Take yourself away from everything, and find that corner, that space, wherever it is, and let the silent tears slip and release the tug in your throat." Yes, yes, yes to this. To you and your heart. To your beautiful way of finding words for feelings. Love you.

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  20. This is beautiful! Why can't we all get along?

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