Joy and Pain Dancing

I opened my text messages this morning and Rob had sent me a Reddit post, a video of an "Ode to Joy" flash mob. Didn't take long before I was weeping and wiping my nose on my sweatshirt, shocking the cats (and ruining the sweatshirt). Beautiful music, pre-pandemic crowds without masks, children clapping hands and climbing lampposts or their father's shoulders to see better - it brought all the feels. 

Today is already a red-letter, fragile day. William should find out if he got into his reach college, and I tossed and turned last night worrying about what the email will say to my son and what his reaction will be. This morning, Rob and I were both up at 5:00, turning off our heating blankets and carefully rolling to one side so we didn't disturb the other, though of course we were already disturbed.

My heart feels bruised, pummeled by this week. The one-year anniversary of my father's death was Tuesday, and my family gathered via Zoom to share favorite memories, ask questions, laugh and cry. My mother was a pillar of strength, as she has been for the past year, and led the way in reminiscences and gratitude. It was a gift to be together virtually and to appreciate the fact that we were all able to be at his bedside a year ago to watch his spirit ascend. That is a privilege which has been denied to many in the last nine months.

So joy and pain hold hands and dance across my chest, sometimes in a waltz and sometimes a square dance. My pulse varies with the dance but it has been higher since last weekend, my veneer of control thinner and more fragile, with cracks radiating by the end of each day. Tears pool, ready to spill at the slightest provocation. I can only pray for the strength to handle whatever comes, for trust in the intrinsic goodness and connectedness of the universe, and for the absence of musical flash mobs - at least for today.