When was it, exactly, that life stopped any measure of transition?
Is it something that adulthood holds? Something that must be accepted along with taxes and cleaning and being in charge of Making All The Things Happen?
One week ago today I boarded a plane that swept me away from a hospital room that became my home, away from family and the sun, and back into a job and a snowstorm and Real Life.
There is no space between these things. No beat of being. They are shoved up right next to each other, overlapping, my heart squished somewhere in-between.
It’s unsettling, to say the least, to move from the methodical unrelenting beep of the heart monitor and into a job and then into the many, many conversations of a family full of girls.
I go, too fast now, because I can’t stop. Won’t stop. Must. Not. Stop. As long as I go, and go, and go some more, I can justmaybe make it.
I cry out, and the heavens weep with me, sending down snow and ice (which is beautiful, but does very little to soothe my wounded heart).
Or does it? The snow piles outside, and inside, my heart (oh so slowly) begins to thaw.
And there I am, buried somewhere underneath (I think). (I hope).
I breathe. I sink deep into the kindness of strangers. I sink deeper into the comfort of my Creator. I breathe again.
Adult life may not allow for transitions, but I remember again that I am (and always will be) merely a child wearing grown up clothes.
Live Color Fully 
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