Joy In The Little Things

Last night I cooked spaghetti bolognaise for the family.  It was a good meal, but while I was cooking it I felt incredibly sad.  It brought Paul back to me.
I've cooked this meal a hundred times since he died, but last night was the time when the memories came.  He loved to cook and would laugh and joke as he did, Radio 5 was constantly on; it was his space.  It's at times like these I feel as though I've fallen into a parallel universe.
However strong my faith is, I still grieve.
Today I'm ok, because I found joy in the sorrow.
Paul gave me memories.  We had a happy marriage and from that have come these wonderful memories of us as a family and I will hold on to that.
Yes, there is great sadness as our dreams have changed and there's pain in Paul just being a memory, but I'm alright with that.  I'm taking joy in the little things.

I thought I'd share with you a poem which has become one of my favourites.

XV11  (I do not love you...) by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt rose or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret between the shadows and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, not you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.