There are fresh lessons being taught here. Piercing my soul and causing reflection of the deepest kind. Only sometimes they swirl around like the cream in my coffee. I try to catch them and can't. They turn in on themselves and together and then all but disappear. But I long for them. Like the summer longs for the dreariness of winter to take hiatus. I replay the conversations, the lyrics, the circumstances just like an old record player. Picking up the needle, putting it down again. Pause. Then it begins again and sigh. That deep breath of a release only to realize it's happened again. Missed. And I don't want to miss them. Or anything.
I was listening to a more seasoned mother than I just yesterday and she said so matter of a factly, "I have no regrets about my mothering". Those words. They struck a chord. Could I say that? She went on to say that she lived in each moment fully with all of her children. Even the hard, messy stuff. What a gift. Isn't that the way we are told to live? Our days are numbered. Us, in our flesh are not privy to the number, not even the how or why. We are told to live. To love well. We are told that our past does not account for our future. There it is. The lesson. Waiting like a gift box all prettied with shiny wrapping paper. Begging to be opened. Inside, the message. Love. Love well. When the day is done be grateful. Gratitude will never leave you empty and love, well it will cover a multitude. Thankfully.
Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.