I had another great weekend, this holiday weekend: Long days of restful, lazy contentment. I soaked in the warm days upon days of sunshine. I read, I made some good meals, I took walks, and I biked (my very first full 8 miles, go me go!). It was deeply spacious and restful.
Still, by the end of the weekend, I longed for "my person". The person that not only I could tell about the weekend, but who had experienced the weekend with me and who I could say to, "Wasn't that just so gooood?" And, who would KNOW exactly what I was talking about because she had been there and enjoyed the spacious, precious time as much as I did.
My person, who would let me just talk, blab really, about my fears of the illness, someone who would just listen and allow me the space and dignity to work through my own illness dilemmas. My person, who would help me strategize about the illness and come up with how "we're going to manage". My person, who when my eyesight got wobbly or my hands got shaky, would willingly be my eyesight, would be my hands.
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