I wake in the wee hours of the morning on Christmas Eve day, too early to get up, but too late to fall back to sleep because my heart has something to say.
It is ready to release the heaviness it carries at Christmas.
My heart shares the weight of all those years shuffling between houses after the divorce. The heaviness of leaving a parent behind. The longing to fill the void between those whose love once created life.
It talks to me about my mother’s drinking, her loneliness, her pain, her efforts. How it carried that weight too.
It shows me my first Christmas apart. In the Rockies. The emptiness. The space. The breath.
It moves to my first Christmas in my own apartment. The joy. The simplicity. The light.
My heart takes me from this bed, in this home, filled with family, into the future–alone, an old woman, in a wheel chair, celebrating Christmas without gifts, or a tree, or a meal to prepare, or obligations to fulfill.
It reminds me that what is now will not always be.
It shows me… nursing homes. hospitals. homeless shelters. refugees.
I listen to my heart unburden itself for hours, and then fall back into a deep sleep. One hand on my heart and the other on my belly. Waking in the same way. Facing an impossibly full day. With a heart aching to be light.