It’s that time of the month again. If that sentence makes you uncomfortable then read no further. If not, then read on, and count yourself among the blessed. For bleeding is but a part of life, and is, in fact, the only way a body is born, the only way a soul can live.
I’ve been writing long enough to know the pattern. Nearly ten days prior, when the two become one–but a part of me remains unfound–the slow fade to anything, anything, anything but black begins. Thoughts are darkened as the moon draws the blood. I fix my eyes on the Light–give my husband a heads up–a drenching cry for help to hold on.
And he does. And I thank God because I know he always will. And my four-year old son prepares a picnic for just the two of us. And I refuse to give up Hope, to give Despair my pen for any written word. And I look down, and see again, the bloody ink that rescues me.
It’s that time of the year that I love. Fall to me is nothing short of summer’s grand finale. Once the kids go back to school, I live in denial for about two months, until mid-October, when I realize the changing weather means I will actually have to wear clothes again. My bra rebellions and two-piece under tank-tops are not fit for the cold. Shorts and flip flops will no longer do–at least not in the mornings. I stare at my closet and remember all the reasons I am not a child of the latest fashions.
So I throw myself into something new. Usually cooking. And baking. And even a little meal planning. The kitchen becomes my friend again. I do things like buy large dry-erase boards for our dining room wall where I can display the meals for the day and the kids can contribute their drawings and spontaneous acrostics. And it wouldn’t be complete without a Bible passage for the daily truth that man does not live by bread alone but by every word proceeding from the mouth of God.
By the way I really like my new globe.