This morning I googled the words to one of the songs I play on my phone anytime I want to write. I have a few songs like this, that seem to put me into a writing trance. I don’t always understand what the words are saying. Sometimes the song is sung in another language, and other times the voices blend together so well, all I hear is the music.
The Road Home
by Stephen Paulus
where is the road
I can call my own
That I left, that I lost
So long ago?
All these years I have wandered
Oh when will I know
There’s a way, there’s a road
That will lead me home?
After wind, after rain
When the dark is done
As I wake from a dream
In the gold of day
Through the air there’s a calling
From far away
There’s a voice I can hear
That will lead me home.
Rise up, follow me
Come away, is the call
With the love in your heart
As the only song
There is no such beauty
As where you belong
Rise up, follow me
I will lead you home
Yesterday was our anniversary. It seems appropriate to mark the day, and there were several ways to do that. He took the day off work, my grocery shopping was moved to this morning, and we left the kids with Grandma for a few hours.
The kids were happy for us, and seemed pleased that we cared enough about our anniversary to make a special day out of it. On the way to Grandma’s we took turns telling them the story, “So fourteen years ago today, at this time, we were…”
Fourteen years doesn’t seem like all that long, and by long I mean impressive. Five felt long. Seven felt significant. Ten was monumental. Since then it’s been a blur of added years. Honestly though, the years you are acquire not achievements, they’re gifts.
It’s the gift that changes things.
The counselors said goodbye and left. One by one, over the course of the past twenty-four hours, they trickled out. It’s always sad to see them go, and yet, it’s the kind of sad that comes from having loved. There’s that old familiar ache of having loved a part of life, never to be lived again. But you lived it, and you lived it well. You finished the race.
The ache is your reward. It’s your heart growing bigger and stronger, deeper and wider, more experienced and more compassionate. You’ve been through this before, and because you have, your heart helps hold together the other breaking, opening hearts. You let the tears come when you need to, let the sadness come and the gratitude follow.
And then you do the next thing.
Life keeps going here. The kittens walk and explore more and more each day. We’re in the last week of summer camp and I’ve been chronically behind on the laundry since June, which is significant, since laundry is usually something I’m fairly on top of.
“Normalcy, boys. We’re working toward normalcy.” That was my answer to the boys when they wanted to sleep in the school room last night. I told them no. It’s time to start working back toward normalcy, towards regularities like sleeping in your bed at night.
We’re not going to wait for after Labor Day this year. I’ve been looking at the calendar, trying to find the perfect starting date, and I’m not finding one. I want to start school before our first field trip of the year, the big solar eclipse we’ll be traveling south for.
I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let’s just take it one day at a time.