A few things I'm thinking about this trip around the sun.
The answers to the big questions are always both complicated and simple. There was a tipping point and there were countless things that nudged me toward it. I needed every person, every conversation, every book, poem, and word, every mistake. I needed the hands of thousands of others who'd gone before me, pressing gently on my back, lifting my feet, catching my falls.
Do you ever/did you ever look at friends' Facebook posts, or hear good news about their lives, and be filled with a combination of jealousy and rage? Sometimes I feel that way and I am so ashamed that I can't just be happy for other people without feeling like my life in no way measures up. I have good things in my life...but not the marriage, house, and kids that everyone posts a million pictures of. And my instinctual reaction to watching other people be happy is, "Why can't I be like that?" Sometimes I just have to stop looking because otherwise, it makes me so sad.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed looking out at the bay, still in my work clothes. It’s Friday afternoon, Memorial Day weekend, and the sun is bouncing off all the roofs of the houses, the water, the docked boats bobbing in the bay. Even after living here for two years, the view still stuns me. The house sits on top of a steep row of houses, the highest on the street, and from this perch in my bedroom, the beauty is always so shocking I believe it washes away all that is wrong. How can a marriage break in the face of that view? How can there be any pain at all?
I’d hear the words tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth like a drumbeat in my heart—a prayer, an encouragement, a promise—that if I could find a way to do it, I would be forgiven and free. But I couldn’t find any version of the truth that didn’t make me a monster. I searched, even prayed for “good enough” reasons to leave: lies, a big betrayal, hidden addictions, a mortal flaw in him or our relationship, but never found anything but my solid, kind, just-as-promised man.
"The Holy Spirit's temple is not a body, but a relationship." - A Course in Miracles
This will be a short post. This morning my husband and I have our divorce court proceedings. It's been three years, and all is fine, really, but it marks an official end of a nine year chapter, and I've found myself swirling the past few days. I've been trying to unpack the emotions, put some narrative to the story, with little success.
Am I sad? Certainly.
Am I grateful? Beyond.
Am I regretful? Of the way things went, but not of the outcome, yes.
Am I relieved? Not really.
Do I need to understand what I am, exactly? Not today.
Will it be delivered to me later, in chapters? Yes, as it always has.
I pulled out Marianne Williamson's "A Return to Love" last night, read a few passages and let it sit on my night stand as I slept.
"The Holy Spirit's temple is not a body, but a relationship."
Later in the chapter, she says, "in every relationship, in every moment, we teach either love or fear." Of all the things I cannot pull out, separate and identify yet, I can say that in our relationship, and especially in the dissolution of it, I was taught love. There was plenty of fear, but it was mine. I was given and taught love, so much that I could not accept it at times.
I will have more to say. There is so much more to say. But I have to get myself in the shower, get ready and put my left foot in front of my right and do the next thing.