The darkness is not always there. But the mask slips at times. #journal

I’ve been trying to write a post for days.  And those that know me know that it’s unusual for me to have to pause in the process.  But I have become stuck.

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There’s a pain in the chest that reminds me to pay attention, to try to figure it out.  My journal- usually filled with clutter and profusion- has stopped.  There are only some scrawled words…

June 10 11 12/ 2013 

Darkness behind the smile

Turning away

The abyss

The mess

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I’ve wanted to write about the darkness behind my smiles.  The darkness is not always there.  But the mask slips at times.   I will be in situations at work or over dinner with family or friends and chirp and converse and dialogue and laugh, but as I say goodbye and I turn away, a darkness slips underneath me and I stand on the precipice and I crawl back to the car and my grey, threadbare worn-out clothes droop around me.  My ashen old face with its sunken eyes is unveiled.  I get back in the car and slump.

But I look over and see my dog looking at me with love in his eyes and I feel the simplicity of love heal me.  I can turn the key again and drive into my future- whatever lies ahead, however long or short it may be.

I suppose it’s fatigue.  It’s all the projects on the brink of success (“we just need to get there”); it’s the usuals.  But I know there has been something else to it.

Driving home today, my mind lingered on my mother.  At the red light, I grabbed my phone and searched YouTube for mom’s favorite song, Cohen’s Halleluja.

Ah- there we go.  The floodgates opened.  I played it about 8 times through before entering the garage and knew those words could be about her, could have been hers.  Could be mine to her.

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

– Leonard Cohen

I could feel my mother’s angel wings envelop me and allow me to miss her.  For what daughter, so loved by mother [a mother I knew who lived with a broken and fragile soul but who loved me so completely] would not miss a mom like mine.  And it’s OK to miss her.  It’s OK.

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Mourning is not forgetting . . . It is an undoing. Every minute tie has to be untied and something permanent and valuable recovered and assimilated from the dust.

~ Margery Allingham

[source]

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