Thirteen

It's a 13. Ten months today. No wonder I am out of sorts. Grief lingers like the painful fever blister that's hanging around on my lip. It's caused by a virus that usually lies dormant, but under times when the body is under stress, will fester and sting and hurt and bleed. Like grief, you can't miss the damned fever blister. You can medicate--and it fades. And of course, when it is the least convenient time, grief, like fever blisters, will reappear. The morning started out well with a great painting session. I had extra time today and painted a larger piece. I wish I could have carried that painting with me today as my shield. Emerging into my own with a dark blue universe, an emerging multi-colored sun, and a large beating red heart. Afterwards, I should have declared a bed-in today and just read and slept. The hellidays are sneaking up. And I'm bracing myself. Again. I doubt myself. As a musician. Rough rehearsal. Stirred up frustration. anger. fear. A part of me wants to stop playing. Sell the musical equipment, save the extra money. But Steve said to be, "What would that prove"? Yeah, he's right. Another piece of me would fall, shatter, and be silent. And I'm trying to become more visible on this journey of living, not fall invisible into the shadows of grief. I enjoyed a nice dinner with friends. I also ran into a dear friend and her mother. As happy as I was for them to be dining together and laughing, I experienced an ache and the loss in my heart, as I will never again be able to enjoy a simple dinner with my own mother.