Today was a drizzly start to the Memorial Day weekend. 47 degrees with a cold mist spitting from the gray clouds. And we had Red Sox tickets. Normally I would be hesitant to do this in that kind of weather, but we had clubhouse seats so I knew I wouldn’t have to brave the cold and drizzle if I chose not to.
On the train to Boston for the first time I felt like something was missing; different. I couldn’t put my finger on it. My eyes searched the train car for clues. Nothing. But something certainly was different. I shrugged my shoulders and sat back against the seat. I was with my NY daughter and her boyfriend and my husband. She made a joke about me, my husband chimed in, and I burst out laughing. Suddenly I knew what was different. I laughed. Hard. Fully. And I laughed with everyone at myself. That was the old me. The me I had lost in the last few years. I was always the brunt of my family’s humor and I used to revel in that. It created camaraderie and brought everyone together in a common goal – mom’s a whack job, but we love her anyway.
Over the past few years I was fragile. Couldn’t take a jab or two. I was sad. Hurt. Red Sox trips the last two summers were forced. I spent most of the train time and game time totally disengaged. My mind stayed in a sad place, while my body moved toward Fenway. I’d leave the game and go out on the mezzanine, gaze at the Boston skyline, and post some sadly profound pics to Facebook. I’d drink too much trying to forget that which made my heart hurt. By the end of the game I’d be so exhausted I barely made the long train/car trip home.
Today, for the first time in a very long time, I stayed present. I was totally involved in not only the laughter, but with the food and great seats, too. I rolled easily with the rain, wind, and cold. I enjoyed the game. Posted fun stuff. And laughed a lot. I never appreciated laughter so much as I did today. On the train I heard myself telling my husband that I don’t grasp at the future so much anymore. Maybe things aren’t exactly the way I want them in the present, but I made up my mind to immerse myself in it and appreciate and enjoy it to its fullest. It’s attitude, not actions. I don’t have to change anything about the things I do. I just had to change how I think about those things.
When we arrived back on the Cape twelve hours later I wasn’t anywhere near tired. We stopped for a late dinner and I was thinking how that was just not possible the last two years. A broken heart zaps all your energy and leaves life flatlined. It takes a long time to put a heart back together again, but it can be done. Never give up. Rattle around long enough in the pieces and pretty soon you begin reassembling yourself. The jagged edges become soft and round like sea glass churned for years in the waves. You can pick up the pieces without slicing your wounds open.
My Boston daughter was close by in the city at a concert with friends. When I saw her pic on Facebook, holding up her glass, enjoying life despite the drizzle, I thought to myself, yup, that’s life. And that’s how it should be.
And so, as a drizzly day goes by, I discovered what was different – the pain is gone, I appreciate laughter, signs of being truly healed pop up more and more each day, living in the present is possible again, and…I have written. (Oh, and yeah, the Sox won!)
Boston daughter, bottom left, so cute…
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