Fall and Falling, Music and Dancing

The air is crisp, there is a clean breeze that rolls through these days, a handful of leaves dance around the back yard, the faded Levi's and long sleeve t-shirts come out of hiding and are worn well with a pair of worn out flip-flops; curly hair stays curly - windblown - but not a mass of humidity-induced frizz; the commercials are for season premiers and the soft chenille blanket on the sofa smells and feels inviting on exposed skin.

With the changing weather comes a changing of routine.  Early mornings, sipping coffee in the chilly air, babies that linger under the covers in the morning - worn-out from football and soccer and karate and socializing at school - and sleepily descend the stairs in the morning, clutching their stuffed animals and curling themselves up on the sofa beneath blankets, waiting for their mommy to cuddle up, cuddle up.

Today begins an entirely new but familiar routine, and I relish it.  Once again, the early morning coffee, the quick blog, returning emails and then a shower and getting dressed and made-up and coiffed for a day of work before the kids wake.  They will be greeted by the professional mommy who still runs around the house, begging them to brush their teeth, packing lunches, patting dogs on the head, pouring milk and cereal in heels, wiping faces, drying tears and finally, mercifully, getting them on the bus and on their way to school while she switches gears and opens up the professional, legal, thinking and charismatic part of her brain in order to kick ass at work, earning a well-deserved and certain-to-be-used paycheck.

Boy, I missed this.

I shared the story of Jeff's death and Dad's death with a friend yesterday who had never met either of them.  It was difficult to expose such a tender wound, yet I found myself wanting to share the personalities of each of them, to let my listener know who they were.  I tried to explain the Fuzzy charisma and how severely dehydrated of it I had become during my short marriage - how being charismatic and charming and personable had somehow disappeared and it wasn't until after my heart was destroyed and I had been rejected as a wife, lover and mother, that I could get myself back to who I had been.  For the fifteenth time in as many days, I was deeply grateful to my ex for leaving.  I was grateful that I had been left flailing on my own because in those deep waters, I discovered a treasure chest filled with the lost chronicles of Carrie Lynn.

Using this discovery yesterday, I opened up the doors that lead me to my past, exposed, and into the varying personalities of the family that molded me; and sharing the beauty and sadness of my family with a stranger to that family led to a tender healing of sorts; as my eyes welled up, so did his.  Exposure, raw and tender and frightening, yet so completely genuine that my heart became healthier - like a yoga or aerobic exercise had bulked its muscles. 

And so, changing seasons, changing routines and fresh beginnings are alive, blown gently through the trees, leaving fresh, fresh air.  I can't say that the grieving has subsided; I can't say that the shock is any less shocking; I can't even say for sure that I won't cry today; but I can say this:  I am also alive, soaring and descending, rising and falling, dancing in circles, searching for a soft landing - like a golden leave dancing to the rhythm of these changes.  The rhythm is melodic and pretty, making the dance easier somehow.