The alarm went off this morning, and I couldn’t get out of bed. My husband came in and found me, still there under the covers. He bent over and kissed my forehead and said, “You are so loved.”
And I can barely stand it, because I am falling heavy. I feel sorry for him, for my daughters, because they are so whole and good, and I am just a hot mess. I hide out in the shower while they get ready, and then feel even more ashamed for avoiding them, these beautiful gifts that live in my house.
On the way to work I drive across a canal and the fog is lying heavy over the surface of the water. That’s me, I think. They are cloud, and I am low-lying fog.
Anne Lamott writes in her book Help, Thanks, Wow about the glorious surprise of this. We wonder how we ever got so lucky to have such wise and lovely people around us, who tolerate us in all of our screwed up broken mess. And somehow, beyond reason, they feel the same way about us, also wondering how they got so lucky. This is truest love, when each person feels that are getting the better deal.
This is the great mystery.
Last night we went out walking, bundled up against the dark. The girls rode in the wagon with our dog and we walked alongside. The stars were bright, and we tried to map out their shapes with our fingers. My daughter says there’s a bunny in the moon, but tonight we couldn’t find it; it was hiding somewhere out of sight. Maybe it was sinking too, falling below the horizon. Shining, all the way down.