Kind promise: I will open to each moment.
Electronic illustrationI am in a time of loss, anger, adjustment. My left hand is no longer dependable. I have resigned from my job. I am trying to help people understand that I can no longer do what they expect me to do.

In this moment everything is all right. As I sit at my desk, in the warmth of central heating, I hear the whirr of my computer fan, the gentle snores of the dog on the couch, the rumble of people moving through the garage next door and everything is all right.

As long as I stay in this moment, all is well.

When I remember the past, I get sad.  When I think about the way my hand would do my bidding six months ago or singing in a musical eight years ago or sitting on the floor playing with my toddler daughter 15 years ago or dancing at my brother’s wedding 20 years ago, my chest is heavy and aches.

When I think of the future, I am fearful. When I think about what may happen to my benefits when I don’t have a job or whether my family can ever take a vacation with me or how I will spend my time as a true quadriplegic, I feel my breath shorten and my heart beat faster.

When people suggest that I could do this or that as I used to do it, I get angry. How can they not realize that my world has changed? How can they not see what an effort it is for me to do anything? Why can they not slow down and be with me in my grief and fear and anger?

What I know now that I did not realize in my younger days is that grief and fear and anger are survivable, even when writ large. Even when they feel so big that I cannot see beyond them, there will be a way through.

Return to this moment. Breathe in. Breathe out. All is well.