It’s so simple for me to write about myself, about the mundane, about things I can somehow control or make sense of or simply accept. Writing is my way of carrying on an internal discussion that eventually leads me to some greater understanding. And that is what I love about writing, like a multiple personality having a conversation amongst internal friends.
But when I really need to make sense of things, when life throws hard balls, writing is more of a challenge, and yet it is still where I turn for answers.
For parents, our children bring us the greatest joy. At birth. As they grow. As they learn. As they face out to the world. As they become individuals. And when they turn back. When they struggle to connect with the world, our hearts break a little. And a lot. And the source of our greatest joy can become the hardest connection to maintain.
For parents of troubled children, the solitude is humbling. The pain is like an open wound that no amount of care can heal. And the doubt is ever present.
Only love sustains, drives, comforts and presents the drive to continue on the journey of our greatest gifts and our greatest joys.