I woke up at 5:00 this morning- wide awake, listening to the Starlings dance on the roof and watched the sun slowly iluminate Longs Peak.
June 30th always wakes me with a jolt, a collective FU(K, a deep sigh and a muddled plan to get through the day.
It’s hard to relive one of your saddest days. Grief freezes time and memories into smells, sounds and snippets as vivid as film. As the day goes on, the edge wears off. I become distracted and the day passes. But the morning of June 30th is my time. My time to remember my Jack. My time to remember how a day started with such promise and how it ended.
15 years of this June 30th- some years are better some years are worst. But today will always be a deep stain on the rest of 365 days. And today, as July-eve begins, so does a collective month of bittersweet anniversaries.
And I am not on my ‘A’ game this year.
This year I am tired.
Four months of unknowns and quarantines, and riots and a bad economy and a pandemic that keeps raging; I am not going into July as my best self. I’m showing up disheveled, a bit anxious and fully aware that the tribe I lean into during this time might be feeling the same way. I have lost my big girl pants and kick ass boots.
And I am tired of rationalizing the last four months knowing that we are still in the thick of it. I am so tired of fighting for my joy. I’m tried of drinking the kumbacha and marveling at how great my coffee tastes in the morning.
And you know what? My homemade masks are really the worst ever. My husband asked me the other day if we could please just buy some.
I will be back. I’ll be back in some annoying joyful way…..give me about 10 hours, a glass of wine and access to our Courage Classic pictures.
This morning? Screw it. This morning I will lie in the suck for a bit.