I have never been a very nurturing person. When somebody I love experiences hardship - even if it's just a cold - I tend to turn and run.
I've tried analyzing why I do this. A lack of nurturing as a child? Overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness? Because I'm an ass?
A few times in my life, I have pulled through for friends or family members. I have brought a few meals, stayed in a few hospitals, cleaned a few houses and held a few hands. But my tendency to bury my head in the sand far outweighs any positive actions I've managed to put forth.
This weekend, I have a very close friend recovering from surgery, a very close daughter recovering from the flu and a plethora of very close others dealing with varying degrees of misfortune.
I'd like to say that I've showered them all with love and affection That I'm there for them - a solid rock of reliability amid a sea of despair. (And painfully revealing hospital gowns.) But I am not. I have run.
It isn't like I'm hiding in the basement, horking down cold pizza and scratching my lamentations into a worn out composition book. Because that would be lame.
If good intentions counted at all in life, I'd be a rock star. But love, from what I've heard, is based on more than good intentions.
I need to say more.
I need to do more.
I need to BE more.
I need to step outside my comfort zone and reach back to the people who have proven themselves to me again and again.
And I will do this!
But . . . I think I'll reach out for one more slice of cold pizza, first.