Howling at the night

A week ago right now, I was succumbing to a muscle relaxer and a pain pill after two days of some of the worst back pain--hell, the worst pain of any type--that I've ever felt. I wasn't writing, because I couldn't think clearly and I didn't want to write crap. My mother was in the hospital, and her situation was life-threatening. Sarah was heading to writing camp on Father's Day, and for the first time I wasn't going to be able to take her. I was missing precious time with Scott and her. I was in despair.

Today, I'm still suffering back pain, but it's much better, and I wrote tonight. Mom is home from the hospital, and though she has a hard road ahead, she has regained her resolve to make that march. My money's on her. Sarah's enjoying writing camp. Scott played in an orchestra performance this morning that was wonderful to hear, and I was there to enjoy it.

So why am I ready to burst with emotion?

Probably because my shields were down for a while. I spend most of my time being a responsible adult, which frequently means choking down emotion while I do the right thing. For a while, though, I felt everything, and I realized again, as I do from time to time, how precious life is. I don't want to forget that lesson. I don't care if it's hard to feel everything; I want to keep trying to do it as often as I can. As I advised Sarah and her friends last year, stand in the fire and burn. Enjoy every bite, every hug, every kiss, everything you can.

I went outside a few minutes ago. I took a pillow, because even though we have four acres the neighbors can still hear loud noises. I walked to the middle of the side yard, stared at the cloudy night sky, put the pillow over my head, and screamed at the night--no words, no message, just a bellow of emotion that had to go somewhere. If anyone saw me, I'm sure they thought I was crazy. I suppose this description sounds crazy.

I don't care.

It felt great.

I intend to keep on howling at the night for as long as I can.