I meant to write - I wanted to write - and some days, I needed to write. Half-written posts are littering my dashboard, but I'll get to them. I will. Really.
Right now, I'm actually busy waiting. I'm sitting in Boston's airport, my feet braced on the window in front of me, and a 32 hour trip ahead. In Melbourne, my grandmother is struggling for breath. She wakes, sees the loving faces around her, smiles and sleeps again. At ninety-two, she's far from unprepared for what's coming, and brushed off her daughter's concern over the DNR. It is time. It will be time.
And so I'm sitting, two days from arrival in Melbourne, not really hoping to get there in time to join the circle of faces. But oh, hell, hoping anyway.
I've been given a precious gift, and I turn it over and over: the Man, who just happened to be able to take a week off, the friends who rushed to offer help, or who let their own troubles be derailed while I babbled, refusing to wail. Being able to go is a gift, supported by community and love, but given as a rare leisure in this process. I could choose to go, had time to book a ticket, had time to cook extra food and arrange playdates and dinners for my family. I had years to learn why I loved this woman, to watch her push past her strokes to learn to walk, hold a cup, a telephone. And I've had years to try to copy her grace.
Love and joy tower above struggle. Got it.
It's a gift to have this time to learn, to plan and to travel. I'm clutching it tightly, knowing all too well that time is not always given. Imagine: I am flying! Given the wonder of that, I can't really ask if she'll wait. Her time is on a different clock. Mine is steeped in the richness of what has brought me to this airport, and what propels me onwards.