Touching Down…

Overall I think I do pretty well with not dwelling on what I’ve lost. I do have my moments, but considering how many things in my life that I had loved have disappeared over the last two years I believe I’m entitled to feel sadness over the losses once in awhile.

This evening is one of those times. For the first time in ages, I put on music to entertain myself instead using other diversions to keep my mind busy.

Going through my playlist of most often played songs I’m saddened to realize that in the past it was hard to keep myself from singing along. My natural impulse is to join in regardless of how awful my singing voice is.

I miss my voice. It’s become hoarse, creaky and sometimes entirely missing in action. A symptom of the mess in my chest. Some days I’m grateful just to get out full sentences.

Singing is entirely out of the question. So is dancing to the music. These things have to take place in my imagination now. They still do.  Sometimes as fleeting daytime thoughts, more often in my night time dreams.

I have to wonder if my body knew all along that I’d lose so many of my physical abilities. It seems that I’ve gone through my life taking note of how good it felt to walk, run, sing, dance, jump, spin, and so much more when I could.

A memory floods back of teaching my daughter how to jump rope at our old house in Toronto. We’d tied one end to the fence, while she and I took turns making the rope turn circles. I didn’t care that the neighbours were watching a woman edging into her late thirties skipping rope like a schoolyard girl. I so clearly remember my feet hitting the ground beat after beat, appreciating the connection to the ground, and then feeling glee over the weightlessness at the height of the jump. And praying that my daughter might also learn to appreciate these small moments of bliss that can enter at unexpected moments.

Another memory of being at a dance theatre when I was married to my daughter’s father. After a performance the dance company (to which he belonged as a performer) and guests had moved to the foyer. The stage was mine alone. I leapt up from the seating area onto the stage and ever so quietly led myself through a ballet routine that I vaguely remembered from the dance classes I taken when I was very small. I’d performed with my class at the since long gone Eaton Auditorium in downtown Toronto, I believe I was only five or six years old.  I can still remember the feel of the sequins of my purple butterfly costume wings between my tiny fingers (and I was tiny, until about the seventh grade I was always the shortest in my class. Always at the end when the teacher lined us up by height). On that stage I felt strong, tall, beautiful and capable of executing a complicated dance routine. In reality of course, a few strides, spins and waves of the arms that might have caused any of the professional dancers to giggle. The delicious part is that that they would have been laughing with me, not at me.

I can think back to so many of these moments of awareness of feeling happy. Wondering if I was given this gift to help me through the challenging times. I cling to this belief, it seems to make sense to me.  The ability to bring forth a happy memory whenever I need one.

Tonight I need these memories. Thunderstorms, the softness of my daughter’s cheek when I kiss her, the frenzied enthusiasm of a puppy let loose, finding the daisy among the tulips, a squeeze of my hand when I’m scared.

I’m still trying to make more of these happy memories. I’m grateful that my mind is still sharp, my memory is still good (which at rare times I wish it weren’t so much so). That I can still feel, be it good or bad.

I pray that for as long as I’m here I can still see the beauty in the faces of the people who surround me, hear their loving voices and feel their touch when they hug me.

Tonight however, I’m allowing myself to grieve a little. Yet still trying to find space in the pain to be grateful that I can hear the music even if I can’t sing along.