I woke up yesterday with a cold sore. My lip was swollen and blistery and I was pretty sure the world was ending.
Turns out I’m still here. I think everyone else is, too. Apparently, the Mayans weren’t trying to predict anything; they just got sick of calendar-making.
Don’t think I wasn’t worried, though. I was raised on Revelations and rapture movies, so I stayed up last night just in case.
For my final moments of life I want to be awake, eyes open, and even if I don’t get to go up up up (like if I haven’t been chosen or if I haven’t tried hard enough to believe) I still want to wave goodbye to the people I love. How sad I would feel to watch them lifting off into the sky, legs and arms dangling. Me left alone.
When I was birthing my daughter, I remember feeling relieved, but also so empty when I felt her leave my body. She had separated from me. She was no longer a part of me. She cried. The doctor sat her on my belly, where she used to be, only now on the outside. The familiar weight of her gave me comfort, but I missed us being one.
Sometimes I wonder if God is what we came from. Like a Mother. Within God we were all connected, the way my daughter was part of me once. I hope we go back to being together someday. I don’t want to be left alone. Separate.
I’m in Alaska visiting my parents. 12/21/12 is almost over. I can hear my dad downstairs watching TV too loud. The world’s not ending anymore, and all the focus has turned to the “fiscal cliff.” We always seem to be on the verge of doom.
The sun made a brief appearance today, but is already gone. Winter solstice squeezed the day, made it tiny.
I read that a group of folks gathered around some Mayan ruins claiming today symbolized a new start, that the Mayans meant this day to represent the dawn of a better time. Okay. If you believe it…
My cold sore is healing, so that’s better.
The truth is my life is good to the point that I’m ashamed. I have running water, sewer, ample food, my health, warmth, shelter, family. Not everyone has those things.
I feel kinda empty, like when my daughter emerged from me. Relief and joy mingled with a strange sadness–the sad of being helpless.
I can’t right the wrongs in this world. How will tomorrow be better?
Here’s what I can do: I can hold the door for people at the store. I can give up a parking spot. I can write without fear. I can choose non-profit organizations that bring others the comforts I enjoy and support them financially. I can hug my daughter, pull her close. I can love better.
Maybe these are small things, but I am small. So I stretch. I reach out as far as I can.