Be Going Back to the Laundry Room

The pull of the dirty, messy clothes.

I am a mess!

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The rhythm of the washing machine.

I crave this rhythm!

The quiet cave in the bottom of my house.

I find this time!

A place to rest.

A place to cry.

A place to be.

The first place I went to once we returned to our house after my mom died. (Read at your own risk!)

The place I return to.

Daily.

Allowing myself to feel deeply.

Being filled with my grief.

Sitting in it.

The boat of grief amongst the waves of sorrow.

My feelings are deep.

But I am full of gratitude for these feelings.

For this time of being.

Allowing these feelings to not turn to anger, bitterness or other things that will tie me down.

Each day is a continual letting go.

A releasing.

A moving forward, while grieving the past.

The gift of grief.

I painted this during the quiet of the morning after my bike ride.
Is this my mom’s chalk outline?
Mine?
My old self?
Or something all together different?
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In a stage of unknowing.

Being patient with myself and others.

Giving grace.

Receiving it.

Just being exactly where I am.

In the laundry room

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