I am writing to you today to name the weight on my shoulders. It is grief.
I am holding it with me for a bit. I am honoring it and letting myself feel it.
The pictures from Texas are heart wrenching. Utterly staggering.
And as I watch the path of Irma, I am remembering the four years I lived in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I'm remembering my life as a young mother, birthing two babies on that island. Remembering enchanted evenings with dear friends, under the stars on our interior patio. Remembering the drumming circles in the Old City that lulled us to sleep on the weekends. Remembering the cobblestone streets, the pan de agua I'd buy through a hole in the wall bakery. Remembering the antique gentleman who I would buy fresh fruit from in the plaza, with an avocado "para hoy" and a free banana for "Estuar".
And I really can't wrap my head around the ruins in the Pacific Northwest. I have wended my way along those gorgeous roads, walked beneath Multnomah Falls, gazed out from overlooks and hiked trails where the fires are raging. Ash is raining down on my brother's deck. He is grateful for the air filtering system at his job site, it makes breathing easier. When will it stop burning?
And DACA. The cruelty of this #notmypresident is stunning.
All of this nipping at the heels of our family's loss of our beloved Abi Tim. It feels a bit crushing.
For those of us who have been paying attention, these catastrophic disasters have us shaking our heads in recognition of difficult truths. We just cannot go on like this.
But for now, I am just naming it and feeling it.
My usual resiliency is missing.
I will rally. That is what I do. But for just a little bit, I am depending on the illumination of a candle to keep me connected to some small bit of hope.
Know that I am keeping thoughts of all of you, dear readers, and our whole human family close to my heart. We are all in this together.