I am trying hard to keep it together these last few weeks of school. Only, not so well. Sometimes I put pressure on myself about how I should feel or what I should write about. Sometimes I want to protect my readers from all the messiness that is happening. We don’t know where we will live, or what we will do, or who will make the money, or really anything. The stress is getting to me.
I wrote on The Mudroom about dying, about waiting for and believing that the resurrection is coming. I am clinging to this, hoping that my mustard seed of faith is enough.
Everywhere I run, I am headed toward dying things. Everything that I think I might love to do, people are warning me those things are dying. On my worst days, I am terrified. The slow dying of the classroom teacher has drained me. I feel myself walking around exhausted, half as much blood pumping through me as a person should really have. I feel the gasping for breath, the slowing of thought as I realize there isn’t enough oxygen to sustain me.