I love holding her hand. At ninety-four years old, my grandmother’s hand is a fragile hand. A strong hand. A hand that is weathered and worn with the triumphs and tragedies of life. Though the skin on her hand is now thin, her long, slender fingers remain refined in their beauty, her nails painted the color of a delicate summer peach.
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emotional wellbeing
Have you ever stood in the shadow of a mountain and felt so small? Are there days you feel like David holding a handful of pebbles as Goliath towers in the distance, echoing impossibility and certain defeat?
I didn’t get married until I was 32 years old. No, I wasn’t a feminist who had sworn off marriage until I had climbed the corporate ladder. Nor was I a free spirit who was resistant to settling down into the comfortable rituals and responsibilities of holy matrimony.
I learned the hard way. Just because I was raised in the church and was a passionate follower of Christ, that didn’t mean I was whole on the inside. The truth was, I was an emotional wreck.
Sometimes it feels as if the waves of healing never lose their distinctive rhythm. Just when I feel one wave passing and I exhale into the calm ribbons that draw the current back into the deep, another resounding force crashes against the shore of wounds within my soul.
Ever heard the saying, “Positivity Is the Key”? How About, “Keep Calm and Stay Positive”?
Mantra’s like “If You Cannot Be Positive, Then Be Quiet,” and “Be Positive, Stay Happy,” and “Don’t Let Negativity Get You Down,” are rampant on social media outlets.
They pump us up. They feel good. Yet the consistent theme seems to be that we are always supposed to be positive, feel positive, stay positive. Negative feelings, it would appear, are not welcome, are not healthy.
Not long ago, I was sitting with a client who, shock of all shocks, didn’t want to be in therapy. He expressed whole-heartedly that, “Only people with mental illness need a therapist, but anyone with common sense can figure out their own problems.”
I blink and it is Easter. I blink again and it is fall.Time passes so quickly, quicker by the year perhaps. What happened to the time? Where did it disappear?
I remember when my husband and I were first courting. He was my next-door neighbor. I travelled quite a bit and to be honest, it took me a while before I noticed him beyond the traditional neighborly wave as we passed in the cul de sac.Our relationship began casually, as neighborhood friends, but the more time we spent together, the more our relationship grew.
Some days life puts us to the test. These are the days that things don’t just rock along, days that don’t unfold as we had planned or desired. These are the hard and agonizing days.
It was a day filled with its usual busyness. I was between clients. I was hurried, trying to check-off one more item on my “to-do” list. It was the last phone call to return. A gentleman answered. The phone call resembled many others, questions, logistics, information.
Broken. I am broken. It is the most freeing word that can escape my lips.For most of my life I was on a feverish journey toward “Good-Enough,” desperate to arrive at the place called Perfection where I could find my worth, where I could lay down my struggle and be enveloped in peace.