Swimming all day. Coming in exhausted. Eat dinner. Sleep. Repeat. Swim. With no particular destination. Just swim. Dive off the dock, into the murkey salty green water. Look at the little holes on the bottom. What's in the holes? I never found out. I swam. On my back, on my side, underwater, through the pilings of the docks. We got brave and took out the little sailboat. It was dangerous beyond description. No one had a clue how to sail. "Just pull up the sail, let the wind take you out, then turn around and come back in."  I didn't wear a life vest. Neither did anyone else. The boat turned over in the middle of the bayou. We laughed, jumped on the bottom of the boat and celebrated the upside down craft. Just enjoyed the day. The sunshine. We waved at shrimp boats, ski boats, deep sea fishing boats. We righted the boat and headed back to shore. I don't remember any of the conversation, just the feel of the wind, the sun and the houses on the shoreline. They looked so small. We couldn't see one human figure. I was eleven years old, and free. Fearless. Adventuresome. Life would never end. So I lived it fully. Came in sunburned. Tired. Hungry. Smiling. Laughing. Planning to sail out again tomorrow. And we did.

Giving birth. That won't be happening anymore. The reality that 'child bearing years are over' usually doesn't bother me. But once a month or so, I get a little sad about it. Today, I had a notion that I can find a new way to nurture young life. I can plant things, create little flower gardens in different places. Last night as I drifted to sleep I recalled my grandfather ambling up and down the rows of his vegetable garden. That is childbirth. Yes it is. He clipped his roses, as parent scolds his child, picks him up and sets him in the corner. When I marry again, one day, we will plant things, and watch them reach up towards the sun, and enjoy the tender little green arms. And smile when a flower opens. And cry when a bush explodes in color, like a child taking his first steps, or a first word spoken. We will water the plants, as a parent holds her breast to a baby. It won't be the same, but God knew what He was doing when he allowed a woman's body to end the life giving process. He knew that her energy and focus would change. That her muscles would ache after bringing in a few small grocery sacks...and her eyes wouldn't focus on close up objects...so He helped her out. I can enjoy mothering in a different way. Now, mothering myself first. And saying "no" to demands that aren't essential. My body says, "No," and while pangs of maternal drive sometimes push hard inside of me, I see the wisdom in some things coming to and end.

"Everything is temporary." This is a thought I cling to these days. I haven't written in several months. I write in my head, composing all types of essays about my life, and the emotions that rush through my veins and heart and make my fingertips tingle. Loss. That is what I have faced over and over and over and over this year. Loss. Just one loss. Followed by another. Not a greater loss. Just another one. A motorcycle crash. A suicide. And elderly woman's light finally fades out. My son leaves to go live with his dad. Then, a brutal beating, rape and murder of a 9 year old girl, who's older brother is my student. Some days my  heart feels like it is in a vice grip, twisting, turning, trying to escape the chest that contains it.  I listen to the same songs over and over again. Usher's "Numb." For a while, I think I"m listening to it because I like the  melody. After about the 7th viewing, I realize the images in the video reflect my year. Then, I hear myself singing the lyrics, and they touch a part of me that even I don't know exists. Numb. Is he telling me that I need to become numb to things that hurt me? The line about " I only trust in the things I feel, some may say that is strange. You better recognize what is real, because forever is a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time. Somethings never change, here we go again. Feel like I'm losing my mind, shake it off, let it go, I don't care anymore, just go numb." I have wanted to be numb. Then, I realized that part of me was numb. And I was glad, because that was what needed to happen. My evenings are long now. Interacting with one child instead of two or three, is not a change, it is an explosion of space. First I imploded. Everything I thought I was shifted. I'm not herding, or prodding, or coaching, or pushing or pulling, or stopping, or lifting like I used to. I can let my arms get weaker, that is what is supposed to happen now. The focus on the lens changed, I moved around to get clearer picture, but it stayed fuzzy. Parts of the picture are still out of focus, and I'm okay with a blurry picture right now.  The small part I see is this: Everything is important. I have recognized what is real, because now is forever, and forever is a long, long, long, long, long, long, long time.