If every moment could be like now. Stuck in the morning.
Clear and quiet.
My windows are open.
I can still hear the birds chirping, a dog barking, some cars moving in the distance, and a light breeze wafting through the room.
By quiet, I mean I don’t feel like anyone is invading my space. Everyone is sleeping. I don’t have anxiety about who is going to call my name next. I love when my name is called, but when I’m trying to wrap my mind around what I must write next or how I can be more methodical about approaching my work, someone calling my name is like a battle cry. No one around me seems to understand this. And it isn’t up to them to understand. I need to learn what I need. I must set boundaries, be intentional about designing my atmosphere and teach my children there are consequences for invading someone’s space uninvited.
Despite this morning of reprieve, the past few weeks have been extremely difficult because of mourning a loss. Despite my loving this morning alone, I don’t particularly enjoy mourning alone.
Mourning alone. This is my doing. All mourning happens alone though, really. Or should I say most all mourning is a lonely process. Very few know how to make company with our soul to understand the depth of our loss.
The one who might have mourned this loss with me, is the very one I’ve lost.
Along with this mourning comes an invasive ugly, visceral appetite for all the wrong things. What’s so abhorrent about this self-loathing state of being, is that mourning can undo a lot of really good habits we’ve taken months, maybe years to cultivate.
Added to the disgust I feel for having gone back to eating sugar, I also feel ashamed of myself because something inside seeks to erase the pain of loss, which is a messy process of digging around in the past to see what was even real. How can someone be here today and gone tomorrow, while we just keep on living as if nothing ever happened? This is unreal. This makes us less than human. But no. This is exactly what we are. Human.
This is what we do. Adapt. Mourn. Forget. Wake up in the morning.
Despite me being loyal to more than one person, I am still a loyal person.
So, this moving on, this computer like scan to eliminate the virus of sadness—as I watch it happening, as I watch myself seeking only to preserve myself by hiding my friend away and dropping our rituals—feels like a betrayal. One part of me thinks I’ll never forget because I was born anew upon meeting them. Even though this friend is gone, they will always be a part of me, as they reminded me more times than I can count.
But another part of me wants and needs to forget. A part of me wants to quickly replace them. Perhaps with an upgraded version of them. A version that won’t die of cancer. A version who bridges the gap between reality and fantasy. And yet deeper down, I fear that this friendship was as good as it gets. As much as I’ve been obsessed with the idea of love for an entire lifetime, I’ve gone beyond what I’d ever been able to imagine. Now, all that’s left is love itself. All that’s left is loving everyone. Loving every moment. Loving each new breath I take.
Or is it?
I can’t be happy with convention, because convention eliminates our need to learn, to discover. I can hear someone wiser in my ear saying, but yes, if you’re truly enlightened, you’ll just sit tight where you are and smile in your soul as life happens before you, regardless of the form, regardless of a host to which you must attach your affection.
But I need people. I need different kinds of people. I need connection. I need freedom to need. So many (intense) relationships are traps. People who need people are also damaged people who may not want to let you connect with souls beyond theirs. This is the strangest thing. How we possess but don’t want to be possessed. How we want to write someone else’s story, but don’t want anyone to edit ours.
I’ve never had a friend with whom I’ve been so close and yet also remained so separate. So free to be. And I’m sure there’s no hiding this, how we fight so hard to get back to normal, to replace our muse, to explain our love as a patterned dysfunction so we can control our outcomes better next time. I’m 100% convinced I’m evolving. As messy as this all looks and feels, acceptance is the difference between mourning and morning. Accepting that as we commit to living life better, healing naturally occurs. This friendship was not the end. This love was only the beginning. Every death is an opportunity for rebirth. I’ll make the most of this mourning. I’m not stuck. I’m not alone. Unless I choose to be.