Have you ever eyeballed that big ole box in the corner that you know must be moved, and that you and only you can move it? And you just know that it's going to weigh a ton and give you a severe backache to move it. Unfortunately, you've got to take it up 3 flights of stairs - and they're narrow stairs; you cannot, must not, dilly-dally between the landings. It's a straight-up-no-pauses-to-catch-your-breath task you're looking at. And, finally, you square up your shoulders, harden your resolve, and proceed to move that box.

Immediately, the weight of that box starts pulling on your arm muscles, and those in your upper back. The elbow starts talking nasty to you, and the neck muscles are creaking horribly. You begin to get spaghetti-legs from all that uphill climbing bearing almost twice your body weight. Long before you get to the stop of that last flight of stairs, you've decided that you will simply never make it - and you can clearly see yourself falling back down to the ground and having the box crush the life out of you with it's weight.

After an eternity, you finally pull yourself up to the last landing - and let the box drop to the ground. The relief on your muscles is immeasurable - but it won't last long. Just wait until you wake up tomorrow! Muscles you never knew existed will protest each and every twitch of your very fingers and toes for days. It gradually lessens, though... and you will heal, in time.

Facing Robby's death was like looking at that big ole box for me. Many, many times, I simply dropped that box right where it started - I simply couldn't stand to pick it up. I'd glimpse it on my way by, sometimes - mostly, though, it was just another walk-around I'd started taking for granted, in much the same way you will automatically corner around that easy chair that you used to whack your hip on every time you passed it. You don't think about it - you just do it. It's a habit.

But my habit left all that nasty weight in my way. I couldn't toe it aside, I couldn't move it, and I had to keep avoiding it, or end up bruised afresh. In June of 1999, when I first began this site, I finally picked up that box, and I'm proceeding up those stairs one flight at a time. Picking up the weight of my sorrow put a very bad strain on me - but putting it down on the first landing (actually telling someone all of the stuff I'd experienced, warts and all) was a huge relief. Sure, the pain was freshened - but it dissipated over the next couple of weeks back to "normal". I can still see that box - I still have to walk around it, sometimes. But I've gotten it part of the way up those stairs, and the relief is addictive. I may just have to pick it up and take it up another flight one of these days.

Inside these pages, you will find not only "Our Story", but the little pieces of beauty I've discovered still exist in this world. Gifts of love, of friendship, and of understanding; new avenues of exploring the landing my box and I now live on; in fact, this is my box. As long as I live with it, I'll keep decorating it up. I'll get some new pretties to liven up that dull brown cardboard with, some new friends to see how I've done that - some new lessons in living with my box. And maybe one day, someone will show me how to open that box, and empty out all the love that went into it and set it out to air - and get rid of the musties that have accumulated over the years.

Webset ©2002 by SleepyHead
All images are credited to their creators to the best of my ability.
URL =http://robby.www1.50megs.com
All other content © 1999-present by SleepyHead.