After a very foggy headed morning thanks to too much vodka last night, I got outside and into the beauty of the snow. Call me crazy. I love to dig out. There's nothing like the way the air fills lungs with every shovel full.
I walked around shaking pine branches to relieve them of the wet weight of snow and stood beneath each shower of white.
But I am still feeling tender and fragile. With every heave ho of snow, I longed for the simplicity and ease of not being such a strong, independant being. But it's my nature. No use wishing otherwise.
So while I temper my own mourning process with compassion for those who are feeling more pain than I, the truth is I'm really angry. And I don't quite know what to do with it. I want to dance it out, dream it out, scream it out, spill it out.
The one thing I'm not feeling any interest in is art-ing it out. I'm sure as time passes, as Larry's father finally passes, a time will come, an idea will wash over me, and I will make some sacred momento.
But for now, I just want to be rescued, knowing full well that I work so hard at saving myself no one else possibly could.
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