After about nine hours of travel through the night, in which Kirk did not sleep at all and I only slept one hour, and during which I attracted all of the above-mentioned maladies, we are finally home.
We were zombie-eyed as we shuffled from the terminal to the baggage claim, just hoping the discombobulated bag made it here safely. Thankfully, it did. (This was an issue with an oversized duffel that we purchased for carting our Christmas goods home, the zipper of which chose to break in the baggage line at the airport, forcing us to leave it in the hopefully capable hands of the baggage officer to fix for us after she sifted through it for any no-no items.) And then we dragged ourselves to the taxi line at the curb, thankful to let the cabbie load our bags into the trunk as we fell into the back seats and let him drive us home.
Now that we are home, we and the cats have spent the day piled on the bed in sleep and reacquantaince. After I post this, I'll be heading back to bed, resting my body, resting my mind, resting my heart.
Thank you for all your kind and tender comments on my last post. It has been a difficult seventy-two hours, starting with one of the most difficult conversations I have ever had in my life with someone I love very much. I carried the conversation with me to the monastery and pretty much carted it around with me everywhere I went. It was always on my mind. It was always plaguing my heart. I was trying to see my way through it. I still am, and probably will be for a while. For now, I alternate between a slow, leaden feeling in my heart and in my gut that makes me feel like I can't breathe and that I'm going to be sick, and a lighter reprieve that tells me this step was important and will be gotten through. The periods of reprieve are less frequent, but I think they have much to teach me. Perhaps in the coming days and weeks and months, their place in my life will grow larger and more representative of the place I will henceforth call home for my heart.
I realize much of what I'm writing here may not make sense, is rather vague, and quite unexpected. Some of that is intentional. Other parts of it are simply the truth of where I am: in vague, unexpected, unsensical-ness. But I trust that I'm making slow progress, and I'll be faithful to watch and learn as I go, and to share what I can, when I can.
For now, it's back to bed for me. Love to all of you. And thanks for your care and your love and your prayers. They mean more to me than you can know.