It has been a long time since I made myself slow down enough to write. It has been survival mode for so long, I think I just adjusted to it inside and now I am functioning again. Tears and anger, panic and prayers, all help me through. I sleep more now and the other moments are full of being mom's executive function. Is it good functioning? I refuse to judge. It is working better than before, but still isn't what I was hoping for.
Disappointment is common as snowstorms in New England. Frequent and intense. It makes me slow down at any rate. Although I have been too occupied with the interminable tasks of living to write, I, and my connection to the holy have been growing. So much happens in silence and the dark. It has been a long uphill climb to adjust to my lost illusions of freedom and self determination.
When did I get the idea I had choices anyway? Letting go of more of my self and redefining ministry to fit my reality still only goes so far in my soul. I just feel betrayed. I resist what my heart finds painful. I try faking it, but to little benefit. I have grown adept at "fiblettes" for the demented, but it falls short at home. The problem is that I know when I am lying to myself, so it doesn't work very well.
So now, snowbound. Living in the strange yet beautiful white dunes of mega-snow. Isolated by the "snowball effect" of a Blizzard or Winter storm event every couple of days that keeps my students and my caregivers far from me and all of us locked inside. I am now unable to hide away from the disease that steals mom. The constant winter has forced me to care for her, too much and yet just enough, alone. For a month plus. With snow engulfing my world, I have few choices. I am here. No one else can come, even when they want to. And like the ever growing snowbanks prevent me from seeing the road, the constant exposure to mom's mental winter, prevents me from ignoring the reality. Now, to embrace that cold truth, and find the joy anyway.
I know there is a metaphor for the slowing of mom's brain that parallels this constant barrage of winter white. It is beautiful, dangerous, and can literally bring down the house if we ignore it and don't clear it.
Our physical bodies ache from all the shoveling. Our cabin fever is at a high pitch and worrying about the next storm only makes for a sour stomach. The weather will continue at its' pace, not ours. Snow will still come. Reacting is sometimes the only option.
For now...It is pretty, and it will be a very green summer with all the melt. That is all I can get to right now. but it is something.
It will have to do.
And it is enough.