Sometimes when we write blogs like this one, where we feel like we’re battling demons, flailing against the dark, we forget those shafts of light that make everything, if just for a moment, golden.
When we’re focused on trying to save someone’s life, and there’s so much tension and trauma going on, we forget to write about the good times. The times that make the fighting worth our while.
We forget to savor what we’re trying to save.
So when I go back and look at my last several posts and see the storm clouds gathering, the dark skies thundering, and cold rain pouring down, I must remember those dark days were pierced with light. Sweet moments of sunshine, golden spots of time. Warm laughter and tender embraces.
I owe it to my son and to myself, and to those of you who have been following our story, to write about the light times as well as the dark.
The times we popped corn and stayed up all night, bingeing on The Borgias streaming from Netflix
The long conversations about spirituality, and books, and politics.
The meals we ate together, all three of us sitting at the table, laughing about old times, enjoying each others company.
The way my son, without asking, would clear the dishes from the table and clean up the kitchen afterwards.
The days he and his dad worked together, side by side in the hot sun, digging and hauling away dirt, finishing a landscaping project in two days that would have taken my husband a week to do on his own.
The light banter and nods of approval as the work progressed.
The times we spent sitting by the pool and swimming together. Him showing us his intense workout routine, the one he learned to do in small spaces without equipment. Us being genuinely impressed.
Then there was the morning the two of us hiked together through the oak groves behind our home to the top of the ridge. The hillside is steep and there are no paths, only deer trails. Although I’ve hiked to the ridge alone many times, he worried about me, insisting on staying below me as we climbed in case I slipped or fell, and then leading the way over the rough spots and giving me a hand up.
I’ve hiked these hills with my husband and never once has he done that. He tramps off ahead and I follow as best I can. He doesn’t look back to see if I need help. He knows I’ll call out if I do.
My son, however, is attentive, anticipating my needs. Perhaps he simply sees me as someone getting older who needs a helping hand. But I think it’s more than that. I see his desire to guard and protect me as a testament of his love. As mine is for him.
It’s important in the midst of our fight against addiction to remember the sweet times among the sad.
To savor what we’re trying to save.
A Walk on the Wild Side 