F IS FOR FRAGILE

                         

There were quite a few entry possibilities for the letter "F" that rattled around inside my skull before I could decide which one to use. As it turns out, I selected none of them. I got myself situated here at the keyboard to begin typing what I had thought I would write when the word "fragile" came to mind. It seemed to fit perfectly. And maybe I will regret dissecting that word here as it applies to me.

I am not entirely certain what is going on within me. I cry far too easily. A song can get inside of my heart and leave me weeping. I can visit some journals/blogs and tear up in a matter of seconds while I read the words posted. I happened to stop for the first time at Christina's mother's art website, and I cried. I called my husband into this study to view her breathtaking murals. And as he stood to my right admiring her talent, the tears flowed down my cheeks. Such beauty she creates.

 

Thinking perhaps I needed to take a break from reading so many blogs and listening to my music, I made a point of doing other things with my time. Visiting with my mother, shopping, spending more time with my children and husband, talking to friends, having company over, cleaning, painting, and making plans for a trip to Chicago occupied my hours.  

 

I spent many a moment giggling, laughing heartily, and smiling. I felt the warmth of those moments intensely. And guess what? I either began to well up with tears, or I outright sobbed. They were not tears of anguish. More like ones of joy. Pure joy.

 

It puzzles me. For instance, on Mother's Day I went over to Mom's with a gift in hand. One of my sisters and her daughter were there. The four of us were having a grand time. There was much joking~as there always is whenever any of us get together. Because I am going to help Mom redecorate one of the rooms in her house, I was rummaging through a shelf in an attempt to clear it of unnecessary items. I came across a diary she had kept during 1996. My mother has kept diaries from the time she was very young. There are some years she missed, but not many. April of 1996 was when my father suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. I wondered if she had stopped writing in that particular diary when he took ill. I looked over at her and told her what I had found. I asked if I could look at it. She nodded.

 

The first entry I turned to was Sunday, March 24, 1996. This is part of what she wrote, "I noticed little rainbows reflected on my cream carpet. They come from the sun shining through the living room window and through the crystal candlesticks on my coffee table-so fascinating. I guess it shows that in life little rainbows can be found in unusual places to make life happier."

 

I once again looked to her and read aloud that passage. I had an overwhelming urge to cry. I could not help but instantly recall all of the dreadful things she has experienced during her life, and the simple words of hers about rainbows tore at my heart. Both my sister and niece were moved by her words, too. But not to the degree that I was. I choked back my tears and directed my attention to something else.

 

Those rainbows have stayed in my thoughts since Sunday. I think about the timing of her discovering them when she did. Her spending time admiring them and then recording in her diary what she saw. Perhaps their images were sealed in her mind to help her cope with the following heartbreaking years of Daddy's illness and passing. The promise of rainbows.   

 

And that is how I find myself these days. Empty or full. Edgy or light. Quiet or loud. Singing or silent. Vulnerable or strong. Laughing or crying. Yearning for an unknown something to complete me or feeling fulfilled. No middle ground. And the feelings can change in a heartbeat. It alarms me sometimes. How can I go from one extreme to the other like that? And just how long will this battle of emotions last?

 

So, yes, I feel fragile. Handle with care.

 

But if you mention the dreaded menopause word to me, I will punch out your lights. ::laugh::

 

"At twenty you have many desires which hide the truth, but beyond forty there are only real and fragile truths - your abilities and your failings." ~T. S. Eliot