It can be dizzying this rebuilding. I am shine bright proud of myself for simply showing up and advancing without too much complaint. I have been open to meeting new people – willing it, even, calling out to the skies while walking the streets of Avignon, “bring me someone today,” optimism filled – and that too takes so much courage. Blowing patiently on the embers. I know it. I have kissed and my lips feel his sweet bruise, still.
And yet I woke up this morning and…I am crying without knowing why. More tears without noise. It started with missing Ben, his arriving just in my half-sleep upon waking and then just waves of longing for my old structure. The stone front steps where I always sat, the books stacked and frequently paged, the comforting illusion of a “forever,” being held in the morning after not sleeping well or sleeping deeply, just as the first hello. I thought that I had moved firmly beyond that longing. I truly did.
Grief is so tricky, leaving me shrugging foolish at my youthful misunderstanding. But I know to be patient, to be kind, to go gently. And I remember well how fortunate I am, it isn’t that.
It is just waltzing, myself in my arms. That old life. This new one. Turning, turning, turning.
In the dirty laundry buildup, my camera is gathering dust and that scares me. Admittedly, exhaustion clouds my eyes. Perhaps these mysterious tears have come for rain? There is something of getting ready for what is next, always – trying to create a luxury of space – that is both joyful and truly tiresome.
Can I find the words? Am I just words? Or am I also air and blood and dust of the moon?
This humaness. I take it all and willingly but there are also moments where I just feel a deep need to curl up on time’s carpet to rest.
Breathing through, I will get dressed and head outside to seek solace in beauty’s kind balm.
