Some thoughts on spirituality and grief

Ever since I joined my church- about three and a half years ago- I have wanted to give the sermon.  I can't entirely say why but it felt like a place where I could really speak, where my experiences would have greater meaning by my reflecting on them in front of an audience.  I finally did for the first time last month and I loved it.

My first sermon was about my favorite movie- why I love it, what it means to me, what I feel like it can teach those of us willing to search for spiritual messages in contemporary media.  It was challenging on a technical level- my church, like most responsible churches, is all virtual now- but not on a personal one.  It was relatively easy for me to speak to something that's had a comfortable place in my heart for so long.

But what I've always thought of speaking about, what I thought of when I first formed the desire to give a sermon, is my brother.  His suicide is something that still haunts me, still offers endless unanswerable questions, still hurts in the deepest places.  Of course I want to speak about that.

Well, I recently volunteered to do so.  I'm on the calendar for a little less than two months from now.  And because of that, it's been on my mind a lot.

He died a little over three and half years ago (gee, what a coincidence).  He was just two months shy of his 38th birthday.  My 38th birthday is tomorrow.  It's so strange to think that I'm older than my older brother.

What has become the norm, at least for the past year or so, is that I don't think about him all that often.  Of course I still get the waves of grief- the rage, the sadness, the questioning.  And of course they still come in completely unexpected ways.  But they don't hit nearly that hard anymore and they don't throw me nearly as far off course as they used to.  Nowadays the boat rocks, I feel it move, and then I just go back to rowing.

But since I formally made the request to sermon on this- and not just on him, but suicide in general- I think about him everyday.  About him, the topic, the billions of things about it that must have changed since the world went into pandemic mode.  I start formulating my sermon in my mind, start editing without specifics, start thinking of things I need to research or messages I need to incorporate. 

Here's what I have so far: I would start with a picture of him.  One of the many things I am sad about is that I don't have a recent picture of him that I can just look at whenever I feel the need.  We were so estranged by the time of his death that there hadn't been a family photo with both of us in it for years before- and all of those I left to my mother because I didn't care at the time.  The only physical, holdable photos I have of him are from when he was a child that show an impossibly adorable toeheaded boy with a bright smile and visible warmth.  I don't remember that version of him, and I don't mourn him.  I mourn the man who's face showed the dreariness he felt about life.  And I don't have a picture of him.

Technicality aside, I would start with a picture of him.  And I would talk about the stories- the one I don't like to tell, the one I don't know, and the one I like to share because it's a rare bright moment the two of us had.

The story I don't like to tell is the shortest, easiest, and most utilitarian.  It explains why this person would choose what they did without leaving any questions behind.  That story goes that he struggled on and off with heroin addiction for 20 years before ultimately taking his own life.  See?  Perfunctory.

The one I don't know is much longer, more complex, and contains a sea of questions.  And that is the story of who he actually was.  I don't know that story at all.  I have random facts: he was extremely computer savvy, he watched the Simpsons religiously as a kid, he believed in a lot of conspiracy theories, and he had a chuckle he made when teasing that I absolutely loved.  But that's nothing of the lifetime of this man I never got to know because he never let me get close enough and I ultimately gave up trying.  I don't know if I'll ever know that story and not knowing hurts more than anything else.

The last story, the one I like to tell, is a rare moment of joy between the two of us.  He was in 8th grade, I in 5th.  Our social studies teachers had gotten together so that we were all studying the same thing at different levels: Billy Joel's "We didn't start the fire" and the machine gun list of historical events that form the verses.  We'd both been given handouts with the lyrics and one afternoon, for reasons I can't remember, we decided to sing it together.  He stood in our empty driveway- my parents weren't home yet- singing the verses while I rode circles around him on my bike singing the choruses when the times came.  I love this memory of him because it sounds like something a brother and sister who love each other would do.  I love this memory because I like to think that we loved each other in that moment.

These stories all illustrate some deep points I would then go into with considered attention: the statistics and the trauma that tends to unite individuals who ultimately complete, the experience of those they leave behind who all have unanswered questions that haunt them, and the moments that shine brighter in the memories of those who will never be able to get over their loss.  There's a lot there, and I haven't even gotten to the end.

Because in the end, and the most important thing I want to leave people with, there is hope.  There has to be hope.  It's like air to a person gasping for breath and it's the most important spiritual principle I know.  I can see it, sort of, in my mind.  I just haven't worked out the map for how to get there yet.

I'm ok with the pain that I will willingly invite into my life as I take the steps to prepare this.  I'm fine with the research I'll need to do, the other personal stories I'll read with tears in my eyes, the sorting of songs and movies and moments that I connect with, the narrative that I'll painstakingly form.  I see purpose in this, and hope for healing.

But right now, the thing I'm dwelling on the most is how deep my ocean of grief still is, and how tumultuously the waves still crash.  It's not something I've been consciously aware of because I haven't been paying such close attention.  But I see it- the storm still rages under the surface of my everyday calm.  And I realize that I'll need to ramp up my self compassion as my little boat gets tossed around again.

On Claiming My Own Voice

I am white.  Cisgendered.  Heterosexual.  Able-bodied.  Neurotypical.  White collar.  Middle class.  Suburban American.  All of which can contribute to a feeling of not being particularly special and therefore not having anything particularly special to contribute to a lot of the important conversations going on.  (Black and white thinking, I know, but true.)

I also identify as a suicide loss survivor, mental health advocate, and individual who herself struggles with mental illness.  I work very hard in my role as a therapist to normalize the difficulties my clients face and to enable them to talk about everything from serious trauma and suicidality to every other thought that can make a person feel completely alienated and alone.  And I work very hard on myself in my efforts to not only practice what I preach but also integrate greater levels of spirituality and universal compassion.  All of which leads me to feel like I have quite a lot to say on the subject of mental health and its countless intersections within all of those aforementioned important conversations.

In the end, though, the most accurate term I can use to label myself (for as useful as labels can be) is human.  I think that best captures all the similarities and differences.  Not only of myself, but of everyone.  Human describes all people on the planet regardless of what they do or don't identify as.  And therefore dehuamization in any form is what I hate the most.  And one of the most dehuamizing experiences a person can have is being denied their voice.  Especially when the person denying it is them.

So regardless of how special or completely ordinary I may be I have to speak out.  About what I know and what I don't.  I have to share information and ask questions.  I have to point out what the world looks like from within my own skin and try to get a better understanding of what it looks like from inside others'.  I have to amplify my own voice and also hand the mic over to those being silenced.

It's not about being special.  If I believe in human rights then I have to believe in my own.  Especially the right to my own voice.

Soul Sisters

I'm understandably a bit of a mess here at the end of this.  The prospect of not recapping my week every Thursday night.  The prospect of Sunday coming up with no epic itinerary at the yoga studio.  The prospect of these awe-inspiring women not being a regular, integral part of my life.  It's frightening.

Our yoga teacher commented last night on how this group in particular has had each other's backs through a lot of shit.  We've all been through some stuff throughout the course of this year and we all relied on each other to get through it.  I can say for myself that I have absolutely no doubt that I wouldn't be where I am without these women.  I hate to say it, but I'm pretty sure I'd be back where I was, going on pretending everything was ok, scared and stuck and sightless to change it.

So looking out at life without that rock- my stable base, my net to catch me when I fall- is petrifying.  Especially with so many new things starting.  Embarking on the start of so much without them is more than I can take.

Which is why it's so incredibly comforting to know that I don't have to.  Because these women with their strength and love that has comforted, nurtured, healed and lifted me are always with me.

This morning while I did my daily morning meditation I noticed something as I made my way through my seven chakras.  They're in there!  Without me even knowing it they've made their mark on these most important parts of me.

Down at the root, where I connect to Gaia and that stable home base I so desperately need, is Gisette with her earthy, free-flowing, sensual nature.  Easy, thoughtless, comforting.  I can picture her and feel her hugging me the same as I can feel the earth.

In my sacral chakra where water and creativity come from I sense Lauren with her quiet confidence and effortless sexuality.  I can hear her voice and sense her willingness to move through the changes of life.

At my solar plexus where I connect with the sun I sense Jen- my fiery pitta who so loves planks and handstand push-ups.  And without even knowing it I seem to have inherited some of her fierce strength and determination to break down the walls that I encounter.

At heart where my emotions well up and I try so hard to stay open to everyone without closing down from fear of being hurt again I sense Suzanne.  Her wisdom, her courage to face down her own shadows, her fearless giving energy is in there.  She's part of the foundation of my heart now.

At throat where I struggle to stay true to my voice I hear Olivia with her soulful song.  "If I die with my song unsung it's nobody's fault but mine."  I can and will sing without letting my fear silence me- because of her strength, her courage, and her love.

At third eye where my brain is housed I sense Ericka- not just her analytical intelligence, but her beliefs.  Her many visions for herself and her path inspire me to follow mine and to dream big for my future.

And at crown where all the airy, windy energy lets loose I see and hear Tracey.  I sense her freedom and her desire to connect outside the bounds of limited reality.  And I am lifted by her weightlessness.

It wasn't intentional.  I didn't meditate or visualize or perform any rituals to try to find permanent housing for these women in the map of my own energy field.  I was aware that they were in there, certainly, but I had no idea they were so firmly seated.

I'm so glad they are.  Because now I can go forward even without the physical meetings and regular check-ins on the calendar knowing that who we've been to each other throughout this journey has permanently changed me and that these women who I love with all of myself are part of me.  Forever.

Thank you soul sisters.  Tits to the wall!

The Butterfly Maiden

How to sum up the most transformative year of my life?  Well, I can't.  Not because I don't have the words but because I will be integrating these lessons for years to come.

I came here seeking spirituality.  I was hungry.  I was lonely within myself.  And I was full of so much judgement and cruelty for my precious soul that I could scarcely take anything else in.  Full yet starving, how I've spent most of my life.

The changes came fast- faster than expected.  The surrender of my old belief system- giving up the facts and scientific proofs I used to validate everything I encountered and learning to believe in all that is unseen.  The break down of that overgrown shaming shadow- quieting that cruel judge.  The build up of my soul- that precious, brilliant self that I'd kept in a hole for so long.  And in the end, the biggest change- the one I never saw coming- giving up my prior definition of home and the man I used to define it.  That change- the hardest one I've ever made- has transformed everything else.

And yet, I realize, this is far from the end of the revolution.  If anything, I think, this is just the beginning.

Because Yoga and meditation and circle and magick and intuitive sight and opening and everything else I've learned over the course of this year are practices.  They are acts meant to be done day after day, year after year.  And there is no end to the depths of my soul to explore and embrace.

And that is where my journey continues to lead me.  I may be leaving this group- this amazing, magick group of soul sisters who have left a permanent mark on my soul and made me better through their fearless love- as a yoga teacher.  But I am still in the midst of learning.

My soul's path is clearer now.  My conviction is firmer.  I am braver, stronger and more luminous- I radiate my light with more ease.  But becoming the butterfly goddess, championing the change I so desperately want to see in the world, is a life-long journey.  And I see that this chapter, though the biggest of my life thus far, is still just part of the story.

And as I take these next steps, I carry with me all that has come before with gratitude and love.  Namaste.

Action

Wouldn't it be nice if I wasn't a victim?  If these things didn't happen to me or even because of me but if they just happened and I could respond well?  If rather than hating myself for my perceived failures I could immediately tackle the problem head-on and take action?

I tend to be the most active when there is time to be excited.  To envision and plan and create without someone looking over my shoulder.  But in the midst of unspoken pressures and thankless effort it's hard to take the challenge as that, hard not to lay down and curl myself around my injuries.

I tell my clients to give themselves credit for the steps taken on the bad days.  The tiny, inconsequential, barely observable steps.  I tell them there's a certain kick-your-own-ass boot camp mentality to it.  I say we have to roll up our sleeves and get to work.  And yet I myself struggle with that so much.  I see the failure, form the conclusion and wish nothing more than to retreat until the backlash has calmed down and I can lift my head from the sand.

But today, because of all the pressures that be, I took some steps.  And no, of course not everything is solved- not even remotely.  But the simple fact that I could possibly encounter a new and novel experience definitely made me think.  What if instead of playing the victim I took action and responded- what mountains would I move then?

The Perfect Day

A drive across the back roads headed east.  A bridge across the Delaware.  A town full of the quaintest shops, cafes and nooks one could ever hope to encounter.  A man so excited to show it all to me he doesn't know where to start.

There are brick sidewalks and doll-house row-homes lining the streets.  There are cherry and apple blossoms exploding with color and light.  The plants and trees and grass are such a vibrant green it's almost blinding, a full week of rain having packed them so full of life now bursting forth in breath-taking color.  And amidst it all is a world of scents I have to strain to distinguish.

One scent I know, and my soul loves it so much I dream about it.  It is the one found in pages of old books nestled in over-full shelves of some forgotten shop.  The kind-of place that houses nothing but leather-bound antiques and obscure titles so long out of print only the scholars know of their existence.  I flip through the pages and breathe deep, letting the vaguely musty but-oh-so intoxicating scent penetrate my nostrils, soak into my hair and clothes, envelop me like a hug from a long-lost friend.  The clerk walks by and gives me a knowing smile- he gets this all the time.  Those of us with the love of books find sanctuary in these places, and we never stay away too long.

A walk to the canal reveals a path by the water full of such picturesque vistas my inner photog can't help itself and I start snapping away.  The surface of the water reflects the world and gives the illusion of infinity- a neverending constitutional benefiting the soul rather than the body.  And for a moment- one of many on this day- time stops.  Whatever came before, and whatever will come next vanishes in the presence of so much else.  A breathe, full and enlivening.

A tiny little bar with so much nautical memorabilia it could well-be a museum and a toast made to friends about new beginnings. There is genuine excitement in the air, the kind of heart-felt regard that carries you through the uncertainty and fear into the safety of open arms and smiles.  I will remember this moment.  And yes, maybe it will become part of a story that will end in ways I didn't plan for.  But it will be a great chapter in my life, I know.

Dinner and jokes and stories that flesh out this person, this wonder of a human being I am beginning to submerge myself in.  There are late nights and adventures.  There are "I can't believe you"s and incredulous questions.  There are friendships and milestones and memories from great company, all enjoyed over mouth-watering entrees and the noisy bustle of a good Italian restaurant.  And under the table, the feel of a hand on mine.  One that my fingers are beginning to hunger for when I haven't felt the touch for a while.  It's a secret, a shared glimpse across the table, and I love it so completely it startles me.

And I am aware, as I have been aware for some time, that this is what I've been missing.  During all of those quiet weekends that I defended as being restful, relaxing and easy I was missing this life.  Vibrant, and loud, and wonderfully exhausting.  And being in it- truly sucking the marrow from this moment now- I feel rejuvenated and so, so excited for all that is yet to come.

In the evening, the twilight gives the town an even more magical taste and we wander like tourists in a strange country- marveling at the architecture, the sounds, the signs and windows and roads.  A million inconsequential sightings that endear this place to me in a way that only a new world can.  There's that not-quite-reality sensation on the surface of my skin.  Like the rules of existence don't quite apply for the moment, like truly anything could happen.  I keep breathing, desperate to take it all in, to fully absorb and consume it.  I am aware of the gift, and ever so grateful.

And even if it were the last perfect day, even if there weren't so many more to come, I would still be happy.  Because this day, this beautiful, full day that has filled my soul with so much life I am amazed I can house it all- is perfect.

The Last Class

Tonight was the last time that my yoga sisters and I met in classroom.  Our next meeting will be a more formal presentation of our final projects which the new teacher trainees will attend and our final gathering will be a graduation ceremony.  I am becoming acutely aware of the fact that this is all ending and it's beyond frightening.

It's funny, I can remember our very first class together- I looked around the circle at a group of strangers I'd never met before and I knew- because of the nature of the program, because of a gut feeling, because I was told that this was how it works- that I would grow to love all of them so fiercely that I wouldn't be able to fathom losing them.  I think I may have even said something of that nature at the time.

And even though I've known for a while that this was ending, even though the dates and times of final meetings were prepared well in advance, and even though I theoretically love and embrace change I'm still devastated.  I don't know how you give yourself so completely to a group of souls and not be when that connection ends.

Well, perhaps "ends" isn't fair.  I've been through endings before- time periods during which intense emotional contact cannot continue simply because of the details of life- and I know it's possible to keep those connections going.  The real ones, they say, never leave you.  But the context changes.  A LOT.  And coordinating schedules, making phone calls, following through on proposed visits is never easy, even though the person you're missing is close by.

And, of course, it's not the same.  My yoga sisters and I did battle with our greatest shadows.  We looked at some hard truths about ourselves that many of us kept so close to the chest for so long it's a miracle we were able to bring it out into the light.  We experienced each other in a way that we have not experienced any other human being on the planet.  And while I am nothing but grateful in the knowledge that that can never be taken away I am still floored by the impending end of it.

But, I'm smart enough to know that's just how change works.

The Persistent

I have moments.  Brilliant, triumphant moments where I am strong and powerful and ever-so capable of mountain-moving.  Moments where my grand dreams are only a small series of steps away.  Moments where I am all of the things I want to be, without question.  And the vision of me in those moments is blinding.

But, I begrudgingly admit, that's the not the norm.  Despite all my soul journeying, all of my fearless kali-burning, all my endless exploration and fearless facing of shadow- I'm still human.  And those repetitious, infectious thoughts still find a way in.  The judgements, criticisms and dismissals find the cracks in my visage and seep in, saturating me with that ever-so-familiar damp dread.

But like I said- I'm human.  It's bound to happen.  So I slough off the mold, towel-dry the dampness, and step out into the cold, clean air... ready to try again.

Between Snoozes

Not quite asleep, not quite awake.  That mystical edge of existence where anything is possible.  For some, like my father, it's the witching hour.  The time when the lines between the living and the dead are blurred.  The time where my grandmother, with all of her wisdom and guidance, could safely float the ship into harbor and settle the storm.  For me, with my not yet awakened sight, it's far more random.

My brain flashes on memories and images like lightening, illuminating them for just a second and then fading.  The moment when we first kissed, sitting on the park picnic table, under the streetlights.  The insight I gained from the masterful way you handled that question, that fear.  The reference to some shared cultural exposure- not exciting or earth-shattering in its own right, but illustrative of these superficial connections which are carved into much deeper crevices in the tapestry of our story.  And my mind switching, switching between them.  Each for only a split second, but so deeply felt.

And in the hours of waking light, after I've been dragged away from the twilight madness into the harsh reality of day, I try to make sense of it all.  There must be logical explanations, surely.  Some neurotransmitter firing the way it does when one is stimulated by lust.  How memories form in the subconscious when rules of format and category don't apply.  Thoughts- meaningless, unimportant and so easily dismissed when studied, dissected and pulled apart under the microscope of sterile self-study.

But beneath that- beneath the stories and explanations and clinical categorizations that file things into orderly classes- there is something deeper.  Something closer to the soul.  Something growing, like a fetus in the great mother's womb.  Something, perhaps, like love.

May Day

Today is the first of May: a day usually marked by celebrations of spring, fertility, and growth.  It's been a common theme in my life of late.

I used to think that any change that would be sustainable- that one would be able to permanently integrate into life- had to be small.  Incremental steps in the right direction, tiny victories creating forward momentum, a stable basis to build off of and then add to one layer at a time.  I advised and counseled and even instructed people on the steps that seemed most likely to bring about the permanent change they claimed to want.

But this process of self discovery that I've been in has not been small.  The steps that I've taken have not been tiny victories.  And my stable basis for everything was completely and utterly destroyed in the process of so much birth.  It's nothing short of a revolution and I have no idea when things will settle down.  (Or if, for that matter.)

And yes, it's scary.  More frightening, really, than anything else I've ever done.  And yes, a whole lot of hard-won truths I've held as immutable have been completely tossed aside in favor of a completely different world view.  And yes, my cool, collected exterior and confidence has been rattled to the bone.

And yet, I feel more alive in this space- this scary, uncertain, constantly fluctuating space- than I have at any other time in my life.  Because this feels real.

I have no certain beliefs anymore.  And I recognize that what feels so fundamentally true to me right now could very well change tomorrow.  And I see that any claims I make as to who I am, how I'm defined, and where I fit are temporary.  And yes, I'm scared.  But I am most certainly NOT unhappy.

I'm following the green.  I'm catching the scent of plants pushing through damp soil and letting it lead me forward.  I'm listening to the birdsong in the wind and letting my feet trace the path.  I'm moving, constantly, in whatever direction this crazy journey is taking me and I am trusting that the steps themselves are the way.

It harkens back to one of those lines I've recited a million times over.  "It's not the destination but the journey that matters."  Well, what if there is no destination?  What if the reason the journey matters is because the journey is all there is?  Wouldn't that be revolutionary?

Z is for Zenith

 

 As always, a huge shout out to Ninja Minion Master Captain Alex and his army of ninja minions! 

My Theme: Yoga.  For those of you who don't know, I've been working on obtaining my yoga teacher's certification for the past year and am just a little over a month from graduating with my RYT200.  As such, I figure there's no better way to spend this month than teaching you folks some of what I've learned.

Today is my very first class as a yoga teacher.  I am in Valley Forge Park where I've spent so many days running and being mindful and connecting with the universe on a deeper level than I ever thought possible.  I am teaching people yin yoga, a tool for self-transformation that I love and believe in so fervently that I trust my ability to teach others how to use it to transform themselves.  I am nervous and excited in equal measure and I feel like I'm on the cusp of something huge, some next great chapter in my life.  Although really, I recognize that chapter started a while ago.

I didn't plan it this way- I hadn't tried to arrange for this first class to take place on the same day as the conclusion of this month-long narration through some of what I've learned in my year in teacher training.  But i'm not even remotely surprised that that's how it worked out.

Because that seems to happen all the time, now.  All those little moments of serendipity, kismet, deja vu and the like letting me know- constantly- that I am exactly where I need to be, on exactly the path i'm meant to be on.  Really, it's startling how often it happens.  And yet it's already become a core way of how I react to and interpret life.

At the beginning of this journey I was this sane, logical, cynical person who valued science and "fact" above everything else.  I hated myself in so many ways and I fought a never-ending battle against that internal critic of mine which judged, weighed and measured and ultimately rejected everything I did, thought, felt, or wanted.  I pushed back hard against pretty much all forms of spirituality, and certainly the more woo-woo ones, because my mind- which I valued above all else- told me that couldn't be real.  I secluded myself inside of a relationship which justified, validated and reinforced every single one of these delusions.  And no, I was not what you might call happy.

Now, at the end of a year that has brought about more radical shifts in my worldview, personality, belief system and lifestyle than any other period of my life, I feel free.  I love myself, truly, genuinely and without constant effort.  (Certainly not without any effort at all, mind you, but without constant effort.)  That internal critic of mine- which used to be unstoppable white noise in the background of my thoughts- is so small now I hardly ever hear it.  It's still there, but it's quiet, usually.  Reserved.  A teacher rather than a tormentor.

 And all those judgements, measurements and rejections are so easily dismissed now that I marvel at the ease with which I can let them go.  I value my soul above all else and I use my intuition as the greatest guide I have in navigating and reacting to life.  And that relationship that kept all of those old systems in place, that I had been in for over a decade, that squashed so many of these now flourishing aspects of myself?  Yeah, that's gone. Or rather the person who I was while in that relationship is gone.   Replaced by honest communication and mindful relating that connects me more deeply to the people in my life than I ever have been.  I am the opposite of closed off now- I am open.  And I take in so much of what I used to keep out.

I don't know what comes next.  But I'm at peace with that because I am fully aware that i'm not supposed to.  Embarking on being a full-fledged yoga teacher will involve countless more lessons, journeys, insights and growths than I can possibly imagine right now.  This isn't the end of anything other than my initial training.  My journey, my soul's path... that is just beginning.

Househunting

You asked me once why I was going house-hunting with you if I was so deeply unhappy with you.  I said, because it was my best guess at the time, it was because I was in denial.  Ending things with you was the hardest thing I'd ever done.  Even thinking about it brought on panic attacks for years.  It hurt too much to really look at honestly,  until you forced my hand.

And while I would still say that all of that is true, I see another layer to it now.  I think it wasn't just denial of how things were, it was that intoxicating possibility of how things might be.

When we drove around those neighborhoods and remarked on the yards, the nearby parks, the trees or bushes or windows looking out on all of these things I imagined.  I imagined me sitting in one of those gardens, surrounded by green and light, meditating.  Quiet.  Peaceful.  Serene.  I imagined myself as unbothered by all of the things that bothered me.  I imagined myself transcending my obsessive worrying and all those resentments that would eventually break us.  I imagined myself happy within myself.

And I imagined, like we all like to imagine, that the dream house would somehow fix you in so many of the ways you wouldn't fix yourself.  You'd sleep, finally.  Because of the privacy, or the comfort, or something.  You'd work less because you so loved the home, our home, and you'd want to spend more time in it.  You'd be happy because all of your hard work over the years, all of your misery over the years, all of your monotonous toiling had led you to this... victory, I guess?  That was sort-of how you talked about it, at least.  Like it would define some level of success that you hadn't yet achieved.

It's funny, but in the end I think I did see all of those fantasies for what they really were.  I realized- and I even said it to you- that if you locked yourself into this big mortgage you could only afford by being a workaholic that you would just work that much harder, sink that much deeper, disappear that much more.  And all of those reasons why we'd pick the house in the first place- the large yard and huge windows and all that precious privacy- would become liabilities.  Things that had to be paid to be maintained, fixed, kept up.  And I would be there, in that big, beautiful house, alone.  But even more so, because of all that privacy.

So I abandoned that dream.  And I faced reality.  And I found out, as everything fell apart, that the dream house was one of many fantasies I'd been nursing for years.  Much like the fantasy that when you said nothing it was because you understood me and nothing needed to be said.  Like the fantasy that our life together was benefiting both of us, making us both better.  Like the fantasy, the story, the one that took the longest to abandon, that we were forever.  We weren't.

We were a dream house that never really existed in the first place.

And now, standing at the welcome mat for something else, I find myself being pulled into another fantasy.  So many more things to imagine, so many more possibilities.  And they are enticing, warming, ever so intoxicating.  But they are no more real than that dream house that never existed. 

So the challenge, the mental marathon of disciplined thought, is staying here- right where I am, right now, without letting myself be pulled into that ever-so-lovely possible future.  

It's so much more difficult than anything I've ever done.  And yet, it's real.  And it's enough.

Shapes

The shapes our lives take are as different and unexpected as the ones our bodies do.  It's not just the cuts and scrapes and unexpected injuries along the way- though we seem to love to tell those stories the most.  It's the way the breathe moves you, the way time moves you.

I'm supposed to be grieving, that's the instruction right now.  Society calls for quiet consideration of the ending that has brought me here.  It is meant to be a time filled with memories, emotions, pain.  And yes, it should be spent alone.

But that's not what I've been finding.  In the space that life creates for me everyday I find myself opening instead of closing.  I find that the memories aren't nearly as bright and vibrant as the laughter or the movement or the sun.  I find myself feeling more alive than I ever have before.

I am changing shape.  Life has held the space for me to fill out and I am fleshing out the parts of myself that were undernourished and atrophied from lack of use in order to fill that space.  Who I am, how I think, what I feel- all of these are growing, expanding, becoming.  And while that may involve pain it isn't the pain I expected.  It's not the sharp sting of the memory or the emotional flood of tears.  It's the jolts and starts and aches of change.  It's the best kind of pain- pain from growth, pain from new life, pain from becoming.

And I am so, so grateful for that.

Goodbyes and Hellos

I've been wondering lately, in the midst of life steamrolling straight ahead, if we ever really close the door on our past.  All of our rituals and behaviors we reserve for such things- letting go, moving on, accepting.  As much as the spoken words and steps followed give us something real to clasp onto.. I don't know if ever really let go.

Because our memories never leave us.  And that's the very thing that gives us solace when things go the way they do and those endings we didn't expect force us onto a different course.  But when trying to let go, when trying to move on- those same memories keep us where we are.  Not quite ready to let go, but unable to go back.

So I'm not fooling myself with this.  I know there will be more tears.  I know those memories will still hit me at the oddest moments, stealing my breath away once again and flattening me to the ground like they do.  I know that the pain and the joy will always be a part of me, wherever I go, whatever do, however the next chapter of my story unfolds. 

So I guess that's the acceptance piece.  Knowing that it continues, in unexpected ways and quiet moments of stillness.  Knowing that who I am will always include who I was.  And bringing all of that past with me into the future.

The Check

It's funny, the things we wish for.  I've been waiting for this for a while.  Thinking that it would bring about some level of closure.  Like a permission slip to move on, an ending that would weigh down my baggage enough for me to break free and float up to the surface.  To break through and breathe again.

And yet, just the sight of your handwriting is enough to bring me to my knees.  Just the reminder that there is a living, breathing, writing human being out there who I used to love with every cell of my being.

I tear open the triangular seal and see typed writing through the backside of a folded letter.  You wrote.  You said something real.  Maybe it's an invitation.  An honest disclosure of feeling.  One soul reaching out to another.  Or maybe it's a goodbye, a release.  That thing I've been waiting for.  All those articles I've been reading about how to let go of the past finally leading to something real.

But no, how silly of me.  It's the same cold, emotionless communication you've been giving me all along.  A contract.  An explanation of details.  A photocopied severing of the heart.

And a check.  Logical, feeling-less numbers.  The details, the formalities.  The end.  Real.  Not a nightmare, not my imaginings.  But real, cruel life.

And with that, it's over.  All the formalities, all the details, all the back and forth e-mails come down to this.  Ten years of a love story I thought would last forever, ended in a check, enclosed in envelope, and sealed with the tongue you used to kiss me with so fiercely it made my heart beat out of my chest.  

The tears come.  I have nothing to stop them with.  My body slumps against the wooden doors of my cabinets as I sink down to the hardwood floor of the kitchen.  My body is wracked with the sobs and I don't even try to fight them.  I am carried, like sea foam on a wave.  I am the pain body.  I am heartbreak incarnate.  And no, I don't care how melodramatic I'm being at the moment.  This is real.  This is the end I've been fearing for so long.

I wonder in this moment, if the pain I experienced while we were together is actually worse than this.  If I chose this over that because it really was worse.  And the answer, of course, is no.  This pain is much worse than anything I could have imagined in fantasy, nightmare or daydream.  Because it's not just in my head.  Because it's actually happening.  Breathe- this is real.  You can't wake up from it.

And they all say the same thing: it's good.  The fact that I'm capable of experiencing this, of being mindful to this, of really living in this.  The fact that I'm not closed off to this pain.  The fact that I can inhabit it, the same way as I inhabited love.  This is the gift.  This is life.

So I cry.  And I scream.  And I let my face contort in ways that hurt my face.  And I allow myself the moments of pure, unadulterated pain.  I surrender.  I surrender.

And tomorrow, life will go on.  And the reassurances that I've done the right thing, the only thing, will repeat themselves in my mind.  And I will be fearless and fierce and brave.  I will live.

But for now, in the quiet of my kitchen and the still of this late March evening, I will hold the check and allow myself the space to die... in the hopes that by letting you go, I will finally live.

The Hurricane

Even now, looking around this space- MY space- I still struggle to feel real.  So much has changed in such an incredibly short period of time.  I have a new definition of home.  A new definition of family.  A new definition of myself.  A new definition of life.

Everything has completely changed.  And even the things that haven't changed seem drastically different in the light of all the other changes.  Even work, even yoga, even karate and friendships that have always been there.  Everything- everything is different.

Slightly over a month ago, life looked like it had for years.  Years and years and years.  And now, slightly over a month later, I'm already slipping into a new pattern.  New daily routines.  New normalcy.  In only over a month.  I can't believe it.

I would be impressed or excited or hopeful but I can't be too much.  Because every time I think I'm accepting, the past comes back.  Every time I think I'm firmly rooted in the present a memory pulls me back into the past.  Ten years of memories, ten years of stories, ten years of you being a constant in my life.  And now, nothing.

That's what I struggle with the most- the timeline.  The speed with which a life can so drastically and completely change.  It feels like being picked up by a hurricane.  You're swept up, blown away.  Nothing firm to hold on to, no idea as to when it will end or where you'll land.  Nothing to do but be thrown about and hope nothing irreparably breaks when you land.

But it's strange- it seems I landed a long time ago.  But my head's been spinning ever since.

My Condition

The Buddhists say that wanting is a condition that has nothing to do with the object of desire.  It's not the thing- it's the feelings, the need.  They say this because of what happens immediately after we get what we want: we start wanting something else.  That's why wanting is a condition.  The same way that asthma is a condition.  An illness.  A dis-ease.

When we were together, I thought about you everyday.  Everyday.  Often with joy, sometimes excitement or anticipation.  Desire.  Guilt.  But more than anything, the condition that dominated my thoughts, the dis-ease I suffered from, was worry.  I worried all the time.  Everyday.

I worried about us, about myself as your girlfriend- feeling a million failures and fearing a billion more.  I worried about whether or not you would ever marry me.  I worried about whether or not we'd make it.  And in the end, I worried about whether or not you'd ever understand how important all these changes I was making were, and accept them.  You didn't.

I've been realizing throughout this process how much I don't know.  About relationships.  About partnerships.  About how subtle and insidious codependency can be.  And it's been making me worry. 

I still think about you everyday.  Everyday.  Often with guilt, sometimes anger or rage.  Desire, still.  Regret.  Pain.  But the condition I suffered from, I still suffer from.  I still worry.

I worry that at some point in the future, a long time from now, I will meet someone and I will desire them and grow to love them and it will happen again.  I will worry.  I will obsess.  That future lover will occupy my thoughts the same way that you did.  I will suffer from the same obsession, the same co-dependency.  The same condition.  And I worry most of all that I will lose myself again.

I've been championing the belief that this is all about me.  About finding myself.  About understanding myself.  Including all these dark parts that's I've been ignoring.  My obsessing.  My codependency.  My condition.

But I do fear that future relationship and all the possibilities it presents for me to lose what I find.  I can't imagine doing all this work- and I know I'm really only at the beginning of it- only to lose myself again.  And that's the worry 

Just like they say- different object, same condition.

Days

Some days the world is bright and beautiful, more beautiful than I ever realized before.  I wake up to the sunlight illuminating my gauzy curtains- something that never happened before because you needed those heavy black out curtains.  Your insomnia, always a large stone in the wall between us.

I look at the little one all snuggled in bed with me and feel a twinge of guilt that he wasn't always there- your allergies.  But, I think, he's here now.  And this feels right.

I get up and stretch and putter around my new kitchen making breakfast, spooning dog food, smelling coffee.  No need to be too quiet- no one to wake up.  The space is starting to feel like mine and a routine is starting to build.  Life is easy, I am able.

I meditate and chant right out my open fire escape door.  I feel the wind on my skin, the sunlight on my face, smell the grass in the yard below.  That window I used to hide by so the neighbors won't see is gone and I'm not hiding anymore.  If I stopped hiding from you then what the hell is the point of ever hiding again?

I walk to work.  What a revelation.  No car, no traffic, no desperately clinging to the radio to try to distract myself from the maddening exercise of commuting- I walk.  That alone is a miracle and I love it.  I feel more in tune with everything.  I feel like I'm helping the planet- all that stuff about no carbon emissions and no relying on oil.  I feel free- not trapped in a car stuck in traffic.  And I smile at the knowledge that I'm going to hit my daily step count with ease.

Work is a calling instead of just a job.  I help people.  I listen.  I am genuine and caring and fully present.  I think about how everyone, always, is doing the best they can and I feel a genuine pride in being part of the human race.  And even the paperwork isn't so bad because I'm doing it.  I'm living, I'm surviving.  Hell, I'm thriving.  This is right.

I walk home, and in all honesty I feel a tiny bit like a bad-ass anime character with the wind whipping my blue hair across my face.  Hair that I cut and colored because you always wanted it long and natural.  I look out across the town and I love it.  This is home now.  This is my town.  I am strong, independent and fearless.  I am all the things I want to be and I fit here.

I cook- something I almost never did with you.  I can be adventurous and "just throw something together" without planning because I only have to feed myself and I'm so much more open to trying.  No more take out, no more mindlessly watching tv waiting for you to come home.  It's just me and Buddy now and we're free.

I go to sleep and feel like I can do this- this life without you.  It'll be better.  I will be better.  I will be all the things I've been working so hard to become because I'm no longer stifling so much of myself to keep playing the version of me that you wanted.  I know-  I feel it deep down- that this was the only way.  And I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm sorry I spoiled that perfect picture of everything being just fine.  But I know I had to- because this is who I am meant to be, and I couldn't be this when I was with you.

But then, some days the world has a shadow over it.  It isn't as simple as a change in the weather (though I seem to be a lot more effected by those now.)  It's a change in me.  I wake feeling heavy and weighed down.  As if my bones are made of lead- still brittle and breakable but so, so heavy.  Moving is difficult.  Breathing is difficult- that tightness in my chest is back.

I think of you and I miss you so deeply I can't keep the tears back.  They bite at the backs of my eyes and my throat closes up the way it always does.  My body is a prison I can't escape from and I feel betrayed by it.  Like everything is conspiring against me before I've even gotten up.

Breakfast, teeth-brushing, all the duties of the morning are mechanical; possible only because of their simplicity.  I feel sick.  There's an ache in my muscles, my heartbeat won't slow.  I even wonder if I'm coming down with something though I know I'm not.

I don't meditate- no time.  Getting out of bed took too long, everything is taking too long.  I walk to work quickly and see nothing- not the sky, not the trees, not the world.  I beat the pavement with anger because I'm late and life is fucking hard and I hate myself for it.  For being weak.  For being dependent on the life with you I no longer have.  I hate myself for throwing it away.

Work is impossible.  My brain constantly jumping around like an angry toddler.  I bounce from terrifyingly intense memories to the details of the day and back so quickly I can barely think straight.  I'm fighting it, I know I am.  But I have to- work has to be done.  Life has to be lived.  I have to keep going.  But nothing gets done and my anger increases.

My cynical side comes out full force with a million reasons why the world is shit, why the people in it are horrible, why you were right in so many ways.  And maybe you were right about me, too.  Maybe all this enlightenment is just a phase and I did throw away our life together for nothing.  Maybe I ruined everything.  It feel like that now.  At the end of the day I feel defeated and useless and weak.

On the walk home, I let it happen.  The tears, the pain that I've been fighting back against washes over me like the tide and I get carried away with it.  And it's an ego thing, I know.  My pain.  My heartbreak.  Me, me, me- why doesn't anyone understand my suffering?  And I know there are people in the world who have so many more real problems to worry about and I feel like a shit for wanting it all to end just because I'm sad.  But I am sad, and really fucking angry.  So fuck the rest of the world and let me wallow.

Back at my place I see that my budding home is nothing more than an apartment with a crazy neighbor downstairs and a broken knob on the heater.  I see everything wrong with it and I have no energy- none- to try to unpack anything else.  So the boxes stay, the blank walls stay and I feel some sense of satisfaction in being stuck in it because I deserve it. 

I drink.  Way too much.  And that critical voice of mine which has been on overload all day long gets the best of me.  I am all the horrible things it says I am.  My future is bleak and I was stupid to give up so much for this.  And so on, and so on.

I go to sleep, exhausted and wasted and dead.  But even then, even in the midst of so much self-indulgent self pity and even more self-hatred I remember something.  I remember what I've been told- that this is how it works.  There will be shadow days and pain and grief.  It's not a mistake, it's not an indication of wrongdoing- it's just how it works.  Tomorrow will be another day, another opportunity to do better, try again, be strong and fearless and able. 

So I forgive myself, just for today.  I set my alarm so I have enough time to meditate.  I think about what I need to do tomorrow to make it better.  I pray and I am grateful and wise and hopeful.  Because tomorrow, maybe, will be a bright day.

Lakshmi

Last fall I did a circle that asked us about authentic abundance.  We were told to look at our lives, how we lived them, what we spent our time/money/effort on.  And we were asked whether or not that matched what was truly important to us.

I thought about my home- the sterile environment where we watched tv more than anything else, the layout of the livingroom where that and the couch were the only things that stood out- no books, no color, no me.

I thought about my time- the bulk of it spent sitting in traffic while driving back and forth twice a day, everyday.  I thought about that feeling of being trapped in a car and being powerless to do anything about it.

I thought about my spirituality.  All these new ideas and beliefs changing my life, turning me into a better person, a better version of myself.  And I thought about how hard I had to work to hide that everyday.

It was one of those moments where things were illuminated clearly.  I couldn't ignore or deny anything.  I could, and did, believe I could change it while still keeping my life mostly as was, without disrupting everything.  I believed life could change in only the ways I wanted it to.

Now, on the other side of everything, things look very different.  I look at my home- or the apartment I'm slowly, gradually turning into home- and I see books and games and pictures and color.  I see a space where friends come over all the time for conversation and genuine connection.  I look at a space that is me in almost every way I can make it me.

I look at my time- walking back and forth to work, to yoga, to karate, to everywhere.  I look at the fact that I literally haven't touched my car in three days because i'm waling everywhere.  I look at the sun and the sky and the trees and the people walking their dogs down the street.  I look at how much I'm doing to take better care of the earth and I feel significantly better about myself as a human because of that.

I look at my spirituality.  Not only time spent engaged in circle, ritual, meditation, prayer, all of it.  But also at all the conversations I'm having every single day with people who see me and love me more because of all this.  How I'm literally wearing my beliefs on my sleeve and getting understanding and appreciation and respect for it.  How I'm not hiding, at all.

And I'm not saying that the heartache is gone, or that I won't be destroyed- possibly even tomorrow- by a memory or a doubt or fear that could floor me.  But I am saying that just for this moment it's kind-of nice to realize that so much of my life is more me.  It makes me think I might be on the right track with all this.    

New Look

When we look in the mirror, what do we see?  Is it a reflection?  An honest, clear vision of what is?  Or is just reflecting ideas... Mirages.  Something that looks real enough, if we want to believe in it, but isn't actually there?  I wonder...

A friend of mine recently said that a new haircut and wardrobe wasn't going to change anything.  That whatever I might change was only skin deep.  He's got a point.

But wouldn't it be nice if it was more than that?  If my new outside was really just matching the changes on the inside- outward signs of what was deeper beneath the surface?  I'd like to think so...