On a mundane Tuesday—one where my right eye’s stye is as heavy as a punching bag and nothing notable pings above dull—a storm blows in. Not unlike those foreboding minutes when Dorothy darts from scene to scene, the sky hazes over, the air whips, and there’s a buzz of excitement that flirts with fear.
A good Southern storm has dropped a dead limb, the size of our car, in the middle of our yard, just brushing the edge of the driveway. Eight feet back, under the front porch’s cover, I watch the rain rip sideways through the raised windows. I pull my electronics an inch farther in to avoid the drops.
The air is thick and sweet. It’s that post-downpour, fresh-laundry-commercial moment, the kind that makes you want to turn, face the camera, and whisper to the viewer, Buy now.
But outside, the concrete is a river. The circle at the center of our turnaround driveway is a lake. A stream cuts through the front grass. The sheer relentlessness of it has me thinking—for the first time in my 43 years—that maybe I need a rain gauge. So I can brag in my gardening groups:
“Well, here in Middle Georgia we got…” der, der, der—a very official-sounding number. Oh, how special I’d feel.
Archie’s vet appointment is scheduled for Friday. Earlier today, at the park, as Evelyn played and Dave chatted with the homeschool moms, I stepped away to a vacant picnic table to make the call. While on hold, I sat in a state of overwhelming helplessness, but also felt empathy.
A client had once told me about scheduling her first appointment with a new primary care doctor. The overwhelm of asking for help—the fear she wouldn’t get it—was paralyzing. I got it. Even though I knew I had to do this, that what I was doing was responsible and necessary, there’s always that whisper: What if it’s for nothing?
I called my best friend next. Yes, I was avoiding the group. I wasn’t feeling social—my stye eye made me wish I’d stayed home under the covers. But thankfully, Kristen knows vet appointments well, having dealt with bumps and cancer scares with her own aging pup.
Later, I found myself meditating on a client session and asked myself:
What am I carrying for her that she hasn’t picked up yet?
She spoke of wasted time and feeling stuck, helpless. And I met her words with judgment, as if her choice to stay was wrong.
But stepping away, I saw my blinders. I remembered my own years in a dead-end relationship. The times I couldn’t leave. The many tries. The inner sense that I wasn’t strong enough to do the heavy lifting of being alone. It was too much.
I never fully pulled away. Not until I did.
And then came the grief. For time lost. For the love, I had tried to grow in soil that never softened. But that grief taught me everything I needed to know about limits. About the sacredness of knowing them—and never looking back.
Man, am I ever grateful for those lessons.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 