Nothing To Say

Sitting by the fire on a rainy Sunday afternoon I have nothing for this page.

There's a great deal I want to say, but little comes to mind.

All the memories and wounds resurrected on this particular weekend through conversations with friends and loved ones have brought me to this odd place of nothing to write.

There's certainly enough fodder in my head to write a research paper on the effects of grief on our hearts, minds, souls, and most certainly our bodies, but I don't want to.

In fact, I want to escape all things grief, which if accomplished would have me escape most aspects of my life which is not something I want to do at all.

Maybe a brief documentation of the grief pandemic will suffice: It is everywhere. It leave us numb. It leaves us speechless. It leaves us exhausted. It leaves us in need of healing. It challenges us to present our meager loaves and fishes for blessing so we can offer ourselves as balm for the deep wounds. It only asks us to touch and heal what is right in front of us or on the phone. That's all. Not every grief, not every wound, not every need is ours to gently handle. Only the ones right in front of us. Only the ones others have chosen us to hear, to feel, to witness. 

It is in the acceptance of this task, this burden to carry, that we find our purpose, find our hope in the midst of such a pandemic of grief.

In the midst of having nothing to say.