More and more I have begun to relate to the lake that I see when I look out the window. Some days it is like sparkling glass; smooth, bright and eerily calm. Already this winter, there have been many days when it has come ashore with a fury, an angry procession of dark gray waves and spraying foam, seeking retribution for everything and nothing. It cries out for what it has lost but dissipates for it has nowhere to go.

This is its fate and it must learn to ebb and flow within the boundaries it has been given; that, or erode the landscape trying to peacefully co-exist alongside of it. Little does it know that its molecules are slowly rising upward and will one day rain down in a mist or a torrent upon itself.

I have tried so hard to be strong and light of heart. Pushing, pushing, plodding forward with feet of clay and a heart that has been hastily glued back together.

All the King’s horses and all the king’s men…

Why is it so hard for me to admit that I am fragile and hurting?

Instead, I will only admit that I am impatient. I am impatient and I am restless. I want to feel everything and nothing at all. I am erratic. I am sporadic. I am a danger to those who love me and a danger to myself.

I am like the waves in winter.

I wonder how long Mary wept for her son? Not because she wasn’t confident on where he was but because she simply missed him. She missed his voice over dinner and the way he told a story. Perhaps she walked by a corner where the children played and remembered his little face covered with dirt.

It seems unwise to love so much; to dip your feet into the glassy calm sea unprepared for the riptides. But, being a mother means it is impossible to do otherwise.

I know that none of this makes any sense. I'm pretty sure it never will.