Adjusting

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. -E.M. Forster

It's the middle of January, and winter has firmly planted its feet and has settled in to stay for a while. We've had three snow/ice storms in three weeks; the usual daytime color of the sky is a dreary gray. The leaves on my azalea bush out front, which remain through the winter, have curled themselves tightly against the cold. I see just a handful of people on my daily walk around the park. Most of the others are out walking their dogs, and I'm sure, are wondering why I'd be out walking without one.

This cold and rather bleak landscape has carried itself into my heart this week. I rather suspected this would happen when I didn't have a full calendar for this month. January is when I confirmed I had cancer, went through the battery of pre-treatment tests, and parked my camper van to return to 'real' life. January is the month where Kate started her own cancer journey three years later. January is when I went to Minnesota to help my niece pack up the remnants of my sister Maria's life. January is when Libby was getting her first chemo treatment three years ago; January of last year is when I started to come to grips with the fact my sister Libby was gone.

With all of that going on in the last eight years, it's no wonder I've not delved into the feelings I put to the side when it became apparent my camper van trip had been cancelled. My shock at the change in direction, my anger and deep sorrow at having my dream so rudely interrupted - all these were set aside to be dealt with later.

I think 'later' arrived this week. I am grateful I've been home alone, because I know I'm not fit company. I'm grumpy and depressed and sad. I've spent an inordinate amount of time in the last two days curled up on the sofa beneath my soft white blanket, staring out the window, wishing away the entirety of the last eight years, wishing I was back in my van, back on the road, free. I've been wondering where the road would have taken me, and crying because I will never find out.

Perversely, it feels good to finally be on ground firm enough to not give way beneath me when I stop and explore these feelings. The strands of anger and depression are a dark and tight ball of twine inside my chest, wound about and protecting the broken pieces of the dream at their core.

I'm trying to not drown or deny or avoid these hard feelings, but rather to unwind the ball so I can feel them; to listen to them. When I get to the core, I will try to make sense of the remaining pieces of my dream. I will try to put them to rest; to let go of all I had planned; to look forward to the rest of my life, out there waiting for me.

I can sense good on the other side of this emotional tangle. One baby step at a time, moving forward, sometimes back and often sideways through the mess, I know if I can figure out a way to allow myself to feel these long suppressed feelings, I will make my peace with them. Once I've found that peace, I can begin to fashion the shape of a new dream. Perhaps some of the pieces of the old dream will make their way into my new one; I hope they will.