#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
the process of coming into view or becoming exposed after being concealed.
All through the Thanksgiving weekend I've felt a grumbling disquiet - an inner sore spot beating an offbeat pulse. On the surface: enjoying a fine holiday weekend with loved ones. Still, (secretly) asking myself, why am I so glum? As if the silver-misted weather - dismal black branches and dead grasses - had swallowed me whole. Yesterday, I took this picture, and wrote:
Then, this morning, as I'm walking under a cheer-blue sky - finally - hidden feelings break into consciousness. This weekend has been a rite-of-passage, one I must have expected to coast through without acknowledgement. But emotional shifts happen whether I'm aware or not. I realize the empty nest my fingers have been poking is my own: my youngest daughter spent her first Thanksgiving away from home with her boyfriend and his family.
Weeks ago, I gave her my blessing and encouragement, because I trusted it would be a great and right thing for her to do. (The fact that I very much like him and his family helps me let go. A lot.) I'm accepting of these necessary shifts. My family is changing, my role is changing and this is normal and wonderful and inevitable! And yet, to not acknowledge my feelings of loss is dishonest. I missed her. And there will be no going back. It's unlikely my husband and I will ever have her all to ourselves for the holidays again. A threshold has been crossed. And telling this truth out loud to myself, paying attention, honoring the landscape of my loss is lifting the dismal, lightening my weather.
All photos and text copyright Kelly DuMar 2016