You’re far, far away from me right now. I’m here, touching your feet. But you’re somewhere else. Somewhere very deep. And probably kind of dark.
I can almost see you there, in that dense forest. You’re taking your time, looking around, touching the soil. You’re wondering, what can I use to get back to my girls?
You’ve always being “nickled & dimed” by annoying physical shit (your phrase, not mine). So, I figured irony would dictate that I would be the one to get something serious. Wow, was I wrong.
I’ve basically been wrong from the beginning here. When we first went to the emergency room on Sunday morning, I was pretty sure the chest x-ray was a waste of time and you just had a lousy virus. But that cute mountain-bike riding doctor, sent us home with a diagnosis of pneumonia and a z-pack. And then when you were admitted later that night with an excruciating headache, I was sure that they’d manage your pain over night and we’d all be watching So You Think You Can Dance together on before bedtime on Monday. And then, and then, and then…
And now western medicine is doing what it does best. It’s sticking your body to the earth. It’s giving you the oxygen you can’t breathe yourself. It’s giving you the liquids you can’t drink on your own. It’s filling you with a bunch of medicines you don’t really need just in case you do.
I don’t know that we’ll ever know how you got so sick.
I wish I could draw you the map for the journey back. I wish I could pack you a lunch (and you know how much I HATE packing lunch) or bundle you up in durable, wicking clothes. Really, I wish I could come with you. I have an incredibly good sense of direction. That could be really helpful.
But I can’t.
Here’s what I can do. I can be your constant light. Me and the crazy disturbed following you’ve cultivated over the years. We’re standing here. We are the light.
And in front of us is your little girl.
Her name is light. Just follow that light.