Boxes

"Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow, but this same necessity of loving serves to counteract their grief and heals them." Leo Tolstoy

I have this image in my mind of every lost thing in my life. At each one, I took the feelings and placed them in a box. Wrapped it with beautiful paper and a big red ribbon and placed it on a shelf in the back room of my mind.

Seeing the shelves full of lovely packages brought pride and not sorrow. "Look what I've been through and survived!"

One foot in front of the other I'd say "Nothing can stop me"

But things are changing. The shelves are full and shifting under the weight. Each loss, no matter the size, causes an avalanche. The feelings are busting out of their delicately wrapped packages and saying "not so fast sweetheart"

They are demanding to be heard, felt, experienced. Thinking my way through it is an act of futility. Like an onion each layer must be peeled, each box unwrapped and savored. For in each one lies anger, fear, hurt, and passion.

I know love, forgiveness, courage and time will get me through. But I've made such a mess of things and the gravity of dealing with all those unraveling boxes makes me want to curl up in bed and never turn on the lights. Can't I just lock the door on them or better yet put all those little boxes into one giant "I don't give a fuck" box and throw it in a deep hole never to be found.

That sounds so tempting, and then I see the light dim in my children's eyes as they watch their mother's own light diminish.

That causes more shame and yet another box for the shelf.

What to do.. What to do...