Can-Do Oasis
I've spent a lot of time lately feeling very aware of what I can't do. Which, honestly, makes sense. But even in the midst of doing things, I find myself thinking, "What if someday I can't do this anymore?"
Let me tell you, nothing steals the joyful thunder of a moment like that thought.
So I'm working on making an intentional shift. Rather than give the weight of my thought life to my limitations, I'm trying to focus in on the things I'm capable of. Getting dressed by myself. Making breakfast. Unloading the dishwasher. Taking a shower. Sure, I often need to sit and rest after each of them. But they're things I can do for myself.
Yesterday I had parent teacher conferences for Thomas. I went to the school, walked in to the classroom, sat down and talked to his teacher, and chatted with several parents and teachers on the way back out. I piled into the car with all three kids. It was just cool--not cold-- and the leaves on the ride home were in full color. A golden sun was streaming through the car windows. I was wearing a cozy sweater, and listening to the kids talk in the backseat. And I realized that life was good. So good, it caught me off guard. Here I was, driving myself, getting around the school, taking the kids home. It felt almost normal. Of course it wasn't. When I got home, I reached for the cane in the passenger seat and crashed on the couch, exhausted. But for just a moment I could set all of the limitations aside and bask in the sunlight--literally--of what I'm still capable of doing.
Just like the few blissful seconds of silence I used to savor in the midst of the chaos of the toddler years, I'm trying hard to hold onto and savor the little oases of normal, of can-do.
They make all the moments of can't feel like the periphery, and not the centerpiece, of my life.
Let me tell you, nothing steals the joyful thunder of a moment like that thought.
So I'm working on making an intentional shift. Rather than give the weight of my thought life to my limitations, I'm trying to focus in on the things I'm capable of. Getting dressed by myself. Making breakfast. Unloading the dishwasher. Taking a shower. Sure, I often need to sit and rest after each of them. But they're things I can do for myself.
Yesterday I had parent teacher conferences for Thomas. I went to the school, walked in to the classroom, sat down and talked to his teacher, and chatted with several parents and teachers on the way back out. I piled into the car with all three kids. It was just cool--not cold-- and the leaves on the ride home were in full color. A golden sun was streaming through the car windows. I was wearing a cozy sweater, and listening to the kids talk in the backseat. And I realized that life was good. So good, it caught me off guard. Here I was, driving myself, getting around the school, taking the kids home. It felt almost normal. Of course it wasn't. When I got home, I reached for the cane in the passenger seat and crashed on the couch, exhausted. But for just a moment I could set all of the limitations aside and bask in the sunlight--literally--of what I'm still capable of doing.
Just like the few blissful seconds of silence I used to savor in the midst of the chaos of the toddler years, I'm trying hard to hold onto and savor the little oases of normal, of can-do.
They make all the moments of can't feel like the periphery, and not the centerpiece, of my life.
