I remember the heavy woolen blankets we slept under in a Berber village years ago during our year in Morocco. They were so heavy - and we needed so many layers to stay warm - that we could barely breathe! The floor was hard beneath us and we huddled together for warmth. Eventually we warmed up under the layers of the sheep's wool, woven, rug-like blankets, only to wake up intermittently throughout the night at the unfamiliar sounds.
That memory came to mind recently as I was struggling to breathe under the heaviness of my mourning. It is almost physical, this weight on my chest, and I find myself struggling to get air. I want to throw off the blankets but am unable to - as if in a dream when you try to fight back and can´t move. All my movements are slow and labored. This sorrow is now part of the weaving of my life.
Sometimes the weight lifts for a time - I don´t know why or how - and there is a certain clarity and lightness and energy. Those are times to be enjoyed and to take advantage of. Soon, though, the blankety weight returns and my movement slows, the light recedes, my thinking clouds and the heavy sadness sits down again with all its weight.
I am trying to last the night under this weight. Thankfully, God sits here with me. He doesn´t say much but I know He´s there. We are waiting together for the day to dawn. We are waiting for morning under these wooly & woven blankets of mourning. He breathes for me. He waits with me. He sits. And we wait under wool together...in mourning, for the morning.
Photo by: Ellen, Moroccan Textures