It's not how heavy the load is, but how you carry it
I'm wearing a backpack as I walk this path and find myself collecting stones. One stone says "mom's Parkinsons" and this is probably the most recent stone that carries like a boulder and is the roughest to deal with.
Smaller pebbles say "resentment," "anger," "sadness," and "loneliness." These are the ones that I am able to identify, but are just a few of the sharp, callous rocks that when placed together, form this dark mosaic.
It engulfs me, but beyond it is this forest, full of life yet to live.
I'm a daughter, a sister, a friend, a wife, a mother. There are times when I pivot and tilt to ensure each of these pots get watered enough. Just enough to survive, not necessarily thrive. But that's okay because enough life in each pot is enough to fill my heart with gratitude and love. His love.
But despite this, the backpack is getting heavy. And I just want to jump into the lake and feel the water lift me up. Feel weightless. But I quickly realize that wearing this backpack brings me down to the bottom. No matter how much I strive for air or to get my head above water - I'm not strong enough. At least not alone. But I can't take this backpack off, because nothing has been dealt with. My family acts as if this is as severe as the common cold. Denial woven through our daily conversations as if this is not a progressive disease. As if nothing has changed.
Yet everything has changed. The air is dense. It gets harder to breathe. I'm drowning. Slowly.
