A visit to my library

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“Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s what part of it means to be alive. But inside our heads — at least that’s where I imagine it — there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let fresh air in, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live for ever in your own private library.”
— — Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

I like that analogy. I like the thought of a special space in your mind/heart where you keep the memory of things lost to you. A place where you can go to file things away, or to just flip through the pages of your most favorite stories. The approaching anniversary of my mom's death usually sends me there- so does walking around with a lump in my throat for a couple of weeks. In my library I cry. I ask myself questions, and evaluate where I'm at. How do I feel about it? What else have I learned in light of it? Do I understand it any further? How am I healing? How are the other wounded people around me faring? How can we remember, together? How much further down the road to peace am I? As always, my dad is gentle, kind, and transparent about his journey; his process of handling loss. He shared this with me via email this morning:

"I have often pondered the cost of great love. Is the immeasurable pain of the loss of a loved one worth the equally immeasurable joy we develop over the living of a life? Can we truly, fully appreciate the depth and width of love without the inevitable loss? 

I will choose to feel, to love and to experience the pain of great loss. I will understand that to truly love is a guarantee that the pain of loss will visit. I will be willing to pay the price because it is worth it to me.  Grief in loss is the evidence of the great richness of love.

 As the anniversary of such a great loss comes again to visit, it is with a bitter sweetness. In many ways I love the pain because it rekindles the memories of great love. I am at peace!"

I'm so blessed to learn about life and love from someone who knows a little something about both. Love you Dad.

I'm sorry if you came here looking for some Christmas Cheer today... I've been in my library. Be back soon. xxoo

I am...

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Doing: I have at least 4 lists scribbled with errands to accomplish, gifts to buy, things to bake, dates to remember, and then, if that weren't enough, I have another list to help me remember all of the everyday things that I will otherwise forget. (like "garbage day on Tuesday" and "your name is Libby"). Ridiculous.

Feeling: Wistfulness, sadness, longing, confusion, homesickness, restlessness, hope, anticipation, awe, wonder, excitement- all exaggerated by the slightest tinge of anxiety and exhaustion. 

Loving: People (old, new, familiar, and far away). Snowflakes, smartwool, the Family Christmas Station on Pandora, peppermint tea, the pinkish-gray light at 4:00pm, holiday cards in the mail, and the smell of fir tree in my living room. 

Remembering: Highs, lows, travel, adventures, misadventures, forgiveness, firsts, milestones, and memories made. (The end of the year will do that to you). 

Wishing: that time would slow down, that time could rewind, that time could be paused in one moment for as long as we wanted to stay there, that I could eat more of the bad stuff, that all of my dearest/oldest friends could converge in one room for an evening of catching up, for a full night's sleep, for laundry that folded itself, for a manual on how to rationalize with a 2 year old, for more sunshine.

And so, with that... you might find me a bit more quiet this week.