The Thread of Truth

I am hanging by a thread. We all are. At any moment crisis can crush us under its weight. We protect ourselves from this knowledge by spinning stories of how we can protect ourselves from the catastrophe.

The stories are the problem, not the crisis. For God brings crisis as surely as he brings summer nights and new crops of lambs in the meadows. We don’t have to understand why; we simply have to acknowledge the problem.

We are living in the shadow of His Hand. I am a Scorpio. My mother was in the same hospital room on the same day of the year that her cousin’s wife was. Only her baby girl had died of leukemia one year before I was born. They say when a Scorpio is born another one dies. And that is how I started life.

Death has traced its finger over my life repeatedly. It has not only affected me but my son. I have not been the mother I could have been for him because I was dealing with the death of my daughter. We walk in a muddy rut of regret much of the time. It should have been different; it ought to have been easier. No. We are all hanging by a thread.

If you think this is dark, that is because it is. Light shines in darkness however. The words I write are dripping with life, one cold bead at a time. When I was rushed to the ER last month I was dripping in sweat from colic. Clammy and pale, all I could do was let them take care of me. Even now, over a month later, I am still hoarse and lack energy.

The light shines in darkness. I now know I want to sell the house while I am healthy. I don’t want it to be an emergency decision made in darkness. It scares the hell out of me; but then hanging by a thread does, too.

If you are waiting for me to wax poetic, think again. I dreamt of Leonard Cohen the other night. That is only fitting since I fall asleep to his music every night. I knew he was choice-less in visiting me in the dream. What else could he do but go where love bade him go? You see the thread is made of love.

Once we see this, the darkness can handle the light. But the light is not ours; neither is the darkness. We are pilgrims on this earth, passin’ through. Honesty makes me write this. I am a shambles, a work-in-progress, a misfit toy. By this route I become a tiny flashlight for those that have walked the same way I am walking. The route isn’t easy, not at all. I may not make it out but while I am here, I write the truth as best I can.

Vicki Woodyard