I've been journaling elsewhere the deep things I can't say, the things I can't share, the specifics of what I only intimate here. And earlier tonight I found myself listing thing after thing that had weighed my shoulders down with resentment bordering on bitterness, sadness teetering on the edge of hopelessness.
Then late this evening as I found myself unable to sleep with sour stomach and sore heart, I got a clue. And this is something I can write here in this place. At least I shall try.
I have a little boy who has no siblings. I am his usual playmate. Sometimes we see other children, and if they are around long enough, Grasshopper ventures out of his shyness to play with them. But most of the time it's just the mama and the boy. And he is constantly saying, "Play, Mama, play!" Only I usually don't want to play. I'm lonely for adult conversation. I want to connect with the world. Talk on the phone. Get on the computer. Or chores beckon me. And the "Just a minute" I learned to dread from my mom's own voice knowing that it really meant "just an eternity, dear" is now coming out of my mouth. Sigh. I should be a better mama. After all, it is my only job.
I tried that tonight. We played cars and trucks and had a Ferrari and an Infinity playing hockey with the occasional Zamboni interruption. He was happy. For once I was fully engaged and not looking for an escape to "better" things, "higher" pursuits.
That is when it dawned on me. And a little child shall lead them.......
My son is echoing the cry of my own heart.
I ask and ask and ask again. Please connect with me. Please spend time processing with me. Please walk with me for even a tiny bit of this journey. And all I get are "no's" and "I'm sorry for your pain" and "have you tried seeing a paid expert to walk with you?" No one has time. They have their own hurts, their own circles, their own whatevers. They wish me warm and well and well fed, but no one actually does anything, takes any action. And the cry of my heart just grows louder and more plaintive and causes sour stomachs and sore hearts when I should be sleeping.
This is what he feels like. This is the ache his little heart feels when all he wants is somebody to be with him. He says, "Sleep with me, Mama. I want somebody to be with me!" Oh son, I know the feeling. You are teaching me.
And so, while I cannot make my ideals come true, I cannot make the people in my community do as I believe they ought, I can make myself be the Mama I ought.
Next time when he asks me to play, I will try my hardest to remember to say, "Yes, son, I'm coming right now." Maybe in the playing, healing will come?