The day of the lump.
Somehow during the week, the lumps seem more contained, more apt. But on Sunday, my stomach hangs palpably over my waistband in bulges. My thighs spread lumpily, unwielding, partially contained in cotton and 10% lycra. I yearn for the anorexic restraint of my youth.
My pea-sized brain recognizes the symbolism. The real lump is in my throat. Its tempting to say that it must be dealt with, but really, the bottomlessness of it is that it must be simply felt, acknowledged, allowed, validated. A difficult, uncomfortable position. So the match begins. Brain, desiring control, shouts: "MUST join gym! MUST give up wine, halloween candy, endless slices of hearth bread with butter...."
Heart whispers; "Rest."
On Sundays, I think of family. I hurt for my eldest brother, so far away, so sad for his friend and brother, now on the other side. My heart lurches a little to think of my father. Suddenly old and frail, yet strong and wise, with still so many lessons to give before the final bell. I endure the agony of love for a brother whose life has been drowned in a bottle. A brother I can no longer care for in conventional ways.
So, I'll recognize the tension, and I'll return again to my spiritual hospice. The words will roll over me, cover me, lance the lumpy boils within. And the healing rain will fall , washing my cheeks, my heart, my pain.
Must be Sunday.