An angel’s kiss

I’m not going to lament the sudden drop in temperature that reminds me that Central Florida is not like its perpetually sun-baked sister to the south. In reality, it is this annual reminder that the rest of the United States has seasons that attracts me to this region. Now, before real confusion sets in, a reminder that seasons exist is not a claim to actually have seasons. For instance, Monday morning it was 38 degrees; by noon it was 60. A few days later it was back in the 70s and next week we will be closing in on 80 degrees, relegating cool weather to nothing more than a wistful hope.

To enjoy the peek-a-boo cool weather, you have to act fast. Monday night I lit a fire in the fireplace and entertained a fantasy that a white Christmas could be possible; lo and behold, the next morning the front lawn was blanketed with a white-ish sheen, courtesy of frost. That’s as close as I’m going to get, barring some behind-the-scenes negotiation between the Heat Miser and his brother, the Snow Miser. Snow and frost aside, what I love about this time of year is that undefinable something that clings to the air and makes me feel like anything is possible. Yes, that’s right, that sappy, schmaltzy Hallmark Christmas movie-esque feel that everyday occurrences are indeed miracles unto themselves and everything is just as it should be.

I have been struggling lately with the push-me-pull-you tango going on between work me and take-care-of-myself me. After my cancer diagnosis, I spent a lot of time soul searching, which resulted in a concerted effort to disentangle myself from the constraints of the “norm” so I could create a safe haven of normalcy for myself within which to heal. That may seem incongruous, to reject the “norm” to create normalcy, but for me, an existence that includes a 24/7 bombardment of news, emails, texts and phone calls is anything but normal. I’m not going say it’s not normal for anybody, because there is an entire generation growing up that doesn’t know anything different. They will have to navigate their own idea of normalcy. For me, information overload is anything but normal, which is why I opted to pull the proverbial plug and wipe the slate clean so I could fashion an existence for myself that nurtured my soul, not nagged it. Now, post treatment, as I ease back into the rapids of regular life, I find the mud of the “norm” sucking at my boots again, threatening to drag me into the current to swim with the rest of the salmon. And then I was kissed by an angel.

Have you ever been kissed on the forehead by an angel? I was, last night. It’s the strangest thing, to have ethereal lips press ever so softly against your forehead, the faintest wisps of gossamer hair brushing your cheek as she (or he) leans over to deliver their blessing. “Everything is as it should be,” washes over you, definitive and undeniable. Yes, everything is exactly as it should be.

And so there you have it. Life is a process, a slow steady march on a turning, twisting, winding road. Each perfect point in time on that road has no judgement, no irreverence, because it knows how perfect, how unique it is, while at the same time remains humbled by the endless points of time just like it that are equally as perfect and unique. My hope is to one day be able to revel in each point in time in each day I am blessed by, to see every moment as the gift it is and each experience as a miraculous thread that connects me to the universe, full of hope and promise and opportunity. First, though, I have to deal with the mud sucking at my boots. Apparently, it too is exactly as it should be.

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