quiet stillness

Rainy and gray, today seems almost colorless, not quite like winter's whites and grays, more a mosaic of faint browns... but then looking closer, and it is simply awash in subtle color--in the fog I can see red maple blossoms and the dusty yellow gray of birch catkins, a daffodil here or there, the bottom branches of forsythia blooming where the snow had held the longest, the yellowing of willows-- If you go by fast, and don't look closely, it is fog and brown and empty and bleak, but slow down and there is just so much life happening.

Last night in therapy I asked about the blue, the fragility I feel, and talked about how odd it feels to feel so separate from something that I worked so hard for and wanted and want so much. But she said something that rang true-- that these are all signals from my body that my self needs to be quiet right now.
And I feel she is right, this is an inward turning time, and a time for quiet reflection and creativity.

I know I need to be gentle with myself, allow myself to be slow and quiet. This simply rings true. There is such a push to achieve, to rush, to be and do and feel and become. It is hard to remember that a lot can happen without striving. And much can be experienced better in quiet.

A long long while ago I used to fly fish, not to catch trout (although the occasional nibble was a satisfying affirmation of a well presented fly)- but to stand still in the midst of a stream, to just be there, feeling the water press hard against my legs, and the stones shift under my feet, and to watch foam and twigs swirl in eddies, and sunlight dapple through the leaves a million colors of green.

So for me this is about remembering to slow down, to remember how to be in stillness and quiet.

Today as in many recent days, my heart goes out to Sprogblogger and Musicmakermomma - they both have their ultrasounds tomorrow, which will bring closure or news of miracles.
And Meinsideout just had a totally shitty night that feels pretty final for this cycle. I want to gather them all up in bigger arms than mine and rock for a while, saying somehow this will all be ok, somehow this will all be ok. But I know how many times I have felt that it wouldn't be. That it would Never be ok. And never work out. And who the hell am I to placate with words of hope so tight on the heels of losses. So many losses. Gosh darn how I wish it were different.