I often talk to Benjamin. Out loud. When I think no one is watching.

I talk to him from a place of abundance and joy with my neck craned back, my eyes dazzled by the millions of stars floating over the darkened ocean. I talk to him from a place of peace as I gaze out at waves and sunshine and laughter. I talk to him from a place of fear, when my body is tight, my heart pounding, my trust momentarily shot.

I tell him I love him. I ask him to watch over his big sister. And because I believe that wherever he is, his vision is greater than mine, I ask him to help me remember to put one foot in front of the other and trust that the ground will be there.

At times it’s reassuring to have an angel for a son.

Every night as I drift into sleep, I spend time with my gratitude. Tonight I thought I would share some here. Despite my writing about grief, my life is good. I have the luxury of these thoughts. My basic needs are more than met. There is food on the table, a roof over my head, love in my home. I am not sitting in the rubble of an aftershock, or warming numbed fingers over a trash can fire. There is more to say here. I am too tired to say it. Here is a portion of tonight’s list:

Chipotle Kale chips – one of my new addictions

My rainboots

Fresh flowers

My new body vision board

Clean hands

And here – there are no words other than a full heart.

I’ve been struggling all day. Fighting reality. I’m coming to realize it’s harder to know that changing my thoughts is a choice, ending the suffering is a choice, and being wholly unable to get there.

It’s not that I had a bad day. I got to hang with my two favorite people. We went to the farmer’s market, the sun was shining, there was nothing wrong. Except I wanted to be curled up by myself with a book, my journal, hot tea, and ridiculously dark chocolate. I’ve been taking time for myself lately, and I wanted today to be with my family. I was rarely present for it. Mama, I want your attention. I was sitting beside her but she could sense I wasn’t there.

Right after Benjamin died, I wanted a cave to retreat into where I could hole up and fast track my grief. Where I could cry, write, draw, read and sit without interruption. I found the cave in stolen moments. I needed it again today and couldn’t find my way. It’s easy to berate myself for this limbo, this in-between space where nothing is wrong and nothing is right.

There will be no 7 month anniversary as February has only 28 days, but I can feel my body’s memory awakening. My monthly cycle reminds me of the horror of those last weeks. My body aches. My heart aches. The tears lie in wait.

Tonight I am grateful to be alive. I am grateful that tomorrow is a new day.

My mind is spinning. It is keeping me up at night, whirling its way into my meditations, forcing me out of the present moment. I am about to step off the edge of a cliff – again.  Similar leaps have been either punishing drops or massive belly flops. They have knocked the wind out of me. I’m terrified. I can hardly contain my excitement.

Fear and judgment rear their heads incessantly. I am thrown backward in my fear around Ada’s health. The terror that both my children will be taken from me has tightened its hold once again. Fear about the fragility of my life peeks out from behind the fog of fatigue. It’s as though I’ve recently realized I could have died last summer. I could die at any moment, like my friend Jamie, just as I’m about to leap into the unknown. I feel gawky, awkward in my communications with people I don’t know well. As though I can’t quite find the words. As though I’m back in high school, shy, uncertain, unknown.

Yet as I stand here, feeling the sun on my face, arms outstretched and heart open wide, as I look down at the empty space between me and the ocean I am leaping into, I somehow trust that in this free fall, I will soar.