Lemons and Life

I don't know if the observation of simple things like fresh lemons from a backyard tree can heal the soul in the way that the intricate rituals of religion can, but today I am choosing to believe it can.

Then again, "simple" may be a mischaracterization of a few backyard lemons.

The lemon itself has a history at least as old as our modern day religions. Small things I take for granted are actually the result of a series of processes taking place over thousands of years. Hardly wild at all, generations of humans planted, grafted, hybridized and cultivated the lemon since its grandaddy the citron was first discovered in either India or Southeast Asia, before recorded history.

Self-pity and catastrophizing come naturally to me, but thinking about the beauty and tenacity of the humble lemon is taking my mind off my woes today.

                                                                   

Today

writing a blog 
about my experience
as the mother of an adult son
with an almost certain fatal addiction to drugs
disgusts me.
the idea of destruction to life and limb makes me sick to my stomach,
and sharing it with others seems equally disgusting.

somehow, though, the living with it hidden from view is even worse.

so TODAY I will write.

the question of right to privacy, in particular for him, becomes murky, when I am so utterly affected.

Al-Anon would have me think I CHOOSE to be affected; opening the wound, willingly, over and over...and it is hard to argue with that line of logic.

then there is another line of reasoning that explains the invitation to these frequent paroxysms of disgust and pain; I am, as the late Steve Music would say,  addicted to hope.

the hope that one day I will experience yet again that original high I felt when I was all powerful in his world.

that is unlikely to happen.
and I am tired of fighting with God.
I give him back to you today.