the choir sang Silent Night after the Eucharist and I started crying. I’m not quite sure why. maybe partly to do with the realisation that what was once a magical time has become a period of sombre reflection. the childlike wonder replaced permanently by the observation that I am only getting older and further from the child that used to find wonder in the possibilities of everything around him.
we escaped down south after Christmas for a couple of days. no internet or connection to the rest of the world beyond what we’d brought with us - food to eat, books to read, tents to sleep in. we walked the coast from one beach to another and looked out at the horizon. I felt how far I was from everything I’ve ever loved and for a moment took solace in the fact that there was nothing I could do about the distance. I swam in the ocean knowing it connected me to the same waves that lapped at the shore or southeast England.
Fieke told me I need to be proactive and make a decision I want to move forward. I know she’s right and I need to listen to her, however difficult it was for me to hear. everything about what’s next feels uncertain right now, though I’ve been here before, and as Fieke reminded me, I’ve survived every day so far.
I feel far from almost everyone I’ve ever loved, with not much idea where to find comfort.
Isaiah leaves tomorrow. it’s always hard to let him go. I love him more than anything.
I am held by those around me and count the blessings they bring. one day at a time. <<
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