So I mourned the loss of my marriage. And maybe even more, I mourned the loss of my hopes for the marriage.
On and off, over the last couple of years I’ve thought about how much loss there has been in my life.
It’s hard to talk about it without feeling as if I might be inviting my friends and family to a pity party.
That’s not exactly what it is. It’s more a realization that, yes, my life has contained an awful lot of loss. I don’t know why. I’ve stopped trying to figure out if there is a why. It is what it is. And it was what it was. From childhood on into old age.
That’s where I live now, right? Old age? Even if 60 is the new 40.
Really. Come on. It’s best to call it what it is.
And loss. Grief. It’s universal. The Buddha told a grieving mother to bring him a handful of mustard seeds from homes where there had been no loss, no grief. We know how that ended.
Sorrows, fear, distress, they’re real. We all deal with them. We are all in this together.
Lately, I’ve been feeling a strange sense of emptiness wash over me. Emptiness with something warm and hopeful inside.
In fact, maybe it isn’t emptiness at all; maybe it’s that sense of wide-open freedom I keep talking about.
If I sit quietly with it, listening, I know it is certainly not going to drown me. I’m so certain of this.
At the beach yesterday, I felt as if I was being lifted up by all the elements around me. Floating above the wide and storm-washed Pacific.
Moments like this, I sense that there is something so delicious around the corner.