Meditation on steep hills and shortness of breath

Summary

Hill

The start of the ride, in the hills, is simple.

You are still caught in the flashes of compassion, everyone embraces you, you are still dazed by the pain, dense and gloomy, and you cannot look beyond that smoke screen, which envelops your life for the moment.

You are convinced that you will make it, you come up with many plans for tomorrow, you think and think about the past with one foot in the future, but sooner or later the hill will give way to the difficulties of the mountain.

You already feel your breath shortening: every day you touch the cold marble and you feel that you will remain attached to it, and you will be so certain that your life will free itself from that heavy and insurmountable burden of mourning, of the loss of your son. You will bury yourself with him, and thus all your troubles will end.

If only it were that simple.

Mountain

And meanwhile the climb gets steeper every day, the mountain shows itself in all its mighty and oppressive splendour.

In a moment of wakefulness from the daily torpor you realize that there are survivors, there is your youngest daughter, who is now older, she is unique, she is also alone. It's easy to lose your balance right now. The static nature of the structure has changed, the balances have changed, we need to move with the surrounding universe.

And it gives you strength, that little strength that allows you to move your limbs for another day, hopefully for the next.

The breath becomes short, the muscles can't handle the effort, the brain is out of whack.

The bed becomes your second home, the sofa envelops you in its swirling coils, social networks dazzle you with their variegated and useless news, they anesthetize you, they give you those little moments in which you become part of other families, other problems , of other realities, perhaps smoky, certainly non-existent.

The brain is haywire, the heartbeats lose their sonority: the space around you rotates at the speed of a broken washing machine.

Where am I, who am I?

Your husband calls you, your wife calls you, your daughter calls you, your mother-in-law calls you, your mum calls you: everyone wants you, but no one tends there hand. No one gives you a moment of his time.

Your voice, your hand

"Here, it's me” … who are you, where are you?

"Hi dad, hi mum. I'm yours son. I'm here, I'm always here, I've always been here and always will be, next to you. You don't see me because you don't look; you can't hear me because there is too much noise of silence. Close your eyes and you will see me. Open your heart and you will hear me. Light up your soul and we'll touch again, and again."