Moving My Little Finger

I've been trying to write another post for the last six weeks, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it.  I don't want this blog to be self-pitying, depressed and uninspired and, unfortunately, I've been those things.  In fact, the introspection required to write a post seems to invite those things.  But I have nonetheless been moving forward.  I still can't say I have more good days than bad -- because it's hard to describe any part of this experience as good -- but the days are significantly 'less bad' than they used to be.

Things are getting better, incrementally.  I imagine that recovering from divorce is a lot like recovering from a traumatic injury:  you go through seemingly endless hours of excruciating physical therapy, and it takes months to move your little finger, stand without support, lift your foot and take a step.  Each minute improvement feels like  a victory, but there is still so much more to get through.  Just thinking about how much more must be endured is exhausting.

But you keep going, because you have to.  Because your heart is still beating and you're still here, and life is moving on with or without you.

To that end, I have been stretching my bruised self and slowly filing my life with activity, with newness:  spending time with friends, serving dinner at a 'soup kitchen' on Wednesday nights, meeting with legal staffing firms about temp work, straightening out my finances, volunteering with a visual arts not-for-profit, and (finally) scoring another job interview.

It's sunny, and I'm sitting outside as I write this, wrapped in a winter coat.  I can see my breath in the air, but the sun warms my skin and birds chirp.  And I think I moved my little finger.