I came across this today while traveling and have returned to read it several times, the words rolling around in my head like lovely, smooth stones, tumbling around and down and into my heart.
There’s something about it that cuts right to the heart of what it means to be a human being, and particularly a human being in pain, despondent, weary from loss.
and I know sometimes,
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home
Going through the path that eventually led into my separation from my husband saw many, many days and nights like this…and frankly they’re still there. Nights where,
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent
The pain of losing anything in your life that’s knitted so closely into your own identity - a relationship, a parent, an addiction, a child - it can harrow us to our last two percent, so sure that we’ve got nothing left and cannot go on. But then we do, if ever so slowly, step by step, moment by moment, day by day. We wake up and with sore eyes we make coffee and wash the dishes and take a deep breath, close our eyes, and say a silent prayer for our hearts. That it can bear one more day, absorb the impact of being human with all its beauty and all its terrors. And we are able, despite our belief that we can’t, to walk through one more hour, to do what needs to be done for the children, to make a dinner and draw a bath and even find a moment of gratitude for the warmness of the water on our cold skin.
Nothing is infinite
not even loss
But oh, is it ever so hard to go on when large parts of us are dying to themselves, over and over. Leaving a relationship is acknowledging that you’re letting the thing that is the relationship die. Parts of you and parts of your partner live in that something. Large bits of heart and soul and muscle memory and real memories and physical flesh and one thousand and one moments. An ecosystem of family and friends and routines and shared time is let go of, with shaking hands, and given up to the universe, in hopes that maybe something will return to fill the 98% of you that is missing. But you know whatever fills will not be what used to, and that will mean you will be different, and so will your partner, and that is terrifying and liberating and crushing and hopeful at once.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.