The prospect of writing posts about ways to be thankful, or any public counting of blessings struck me as entirely insincere. There are numerous reasons and arguments for why I should be both thankful and grateful, but this year, I'm not.
post about optimism and talked about my worries about my father's health. Since that time he's received a diagnosis. He has a glioblastoma, a stage four, inoperable, brain tumor located in the middle of his language center. He's 68, and it's unlikely he'll see 69.
Over the last six weeks this brain tumor has been his own localized hurricane. It's sweeping through his brain, uprooting everything in its path, setting fire to his synapses and collapsing his ability to speak, read or write.
There are spots of good news. The physical pain is minimal. He can still get around, go out to eat, understand funny stories about his grandchildren. Those are the things I think about when the hurricane wall of sadness threatens to suck me under its oversized tide.
|Joy of whitewater rafting with my dad.|
Hurricane devastation, whether its personal or on a grand scale, is obvious. It's demands are clear and unrelenting. But even the worst hurricanes leave behind survivors and you either sink under the grief or swim through it searching for little bits of joy that will buoy you up until the lifeboat comes and returns you to a place that bears some resemblance to a place you once knew.
I know you'll want to tell me you're sorry about this sad news, but please don't.
Instead focus on joy. Tell me the things that make you smile. It's only fair because that's what I'm going to talk to you about for the next month, or maybe more. Sometimes it might be little things (believe me, I can do an entire post about the joys of lipgloss or Luluemon running tights) and sometimes it might be big things.
Whatever it is, you'll know that it's my daily splinter of joy and my hope is that it might inspire joy in others who are adrift on a similar windswept and rainy ocean.