spilling open

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The night (and weekend) is drawing to a close. I am laying in bed in the darkness, savouring the sweetness of a couple of freesia blossoms on the simple altar set up on my dresser, my feet warming beneath my blankets, toes tucked under an herbal heat pack stuffed with rosemary and lavender.

I’m feeling sad again, though I truly can’t name the exact cause of my sadness. It is many things, really. Mourning losses, over again; could have beens, never wases and should have beens. Never agains.

I mourn that I have no living parents left.

I mourn that the only sibling I have has grown so distant from me over the years that we can’t even share the truth of our hearts, or have adequate words with which to do so, or trust that no matter what, we will not add to the other’s pain.

I mourn that the relationship that I thought I had with my husband, at first imagining that it would be solid and impervious to all storms, proved itself to be something else entirely.

I mourn that the one relationship I thought could weather such a storm, or the capacity to grow into one that could, is being experienced by another person who in so many ways is very much like myself.

I mourn my younger self, who was beautiful even though she never thought she was, though she still had enough confidence in her appearance to know she could sometimes be almost pretty, and her body was still desirable to someone that she might also find desirable.

I mourn the silencing of my heart, the part that was intrepidly pursuing love despite repeated failed attempts.

There is a saying (from Rumi, I believe, or perhaps Hafiz) that says that to love gives us strength and to be loved gives one courage. This is true, but I think, also, that it takes great courage to love – to really surrender to loving another and *to the love of* another – but to do so also gives one great strength. I know this to be true, because I have felt how unwavering that sense of faith is in the strength of a common love. The hard part for me, now, is to overcome my skepticism about the transient nature of this love, to allow it to infuse me, should it ever present itself to me again.

Perhaps, when that happens, my faith and spirituality will also, once again, be restored.

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