Fog

There was a thick fog that seemed to surround me. Some adjustments were made and the fog started to lift. My motivation to do more than get by returned. Things were still touched by the fog, but I felt almost giddy with the weight of that thick fog gone.

But then I decided to light the memorial candles for my parents on Yom Kippur. Even though I am not Jewish. I don't know what I thought would happen, but I had hoped to make it a tradition of remembering lives well lived. Instead I was filled with grief and loss.

This is the prayer one says as part of the remembrance:
"May God remember the souls of R and J, who have gone to their eternal home. In loving testimony to their lives we pledge to help perpetuate ideals important to them. Through such deeds and through our prayer and remembrance may their souls be bound up in the bond of life. May we prove ourselves worthy of the many gifts with which they blessed us. May these moments of meditation strengthen the ties that link us to their memory. May they rest in peace forever in God's presence"

I felt suddenly so fragile. A slight wind could knock all the little pieces of my heart askew. Something as simple as a stranger making snide remarks about the size of my double stroller could bring about anxiety that left me hesitant to go out. Going to the gym for the first time since first trimester went poorly (I didn't know what to do and ambled about from elliptical to weights and then couldn't figure out the weights) and I came home to a distraught toddler. My will, my desire to try again crumbled.

I was weighed down once again by the fog.

Even adjustments sometimes need adjusting, and so I am waiting for the changes to have an impact, waiting to feel like I can once again take on the world, rather than wanting to hide from it.