Being held by the world
Catalogue of delights: 14
I’m going through a break-up. We’d gotten back together months ago and tried to make things work again, but most of the time it was more painful than not. I tried to muscle through the pain, but relationships are not meant to be muscled through. There was always something that prevented me from opening up and being my full self, which inevitably led to distance and disappointment. This made me realize, among other things, that I believed I was never supposed to let others down, especially my loved ones. As a result I let myself down, and her as well. We talked through our issues and wishes and reached a mutual understanding that this was the most loving thing we could do for each other.
It feels different this time, thankfully. There’s a greater sense of acceptance, a quiet spaciousness and strength that is allowing me to grieve properly. I get sad when I see old photos and our memorabilia (I’m sad writing this!). But I also feel steady and content with the decision. We certainly had our wonderful moments: moments of happiness and grace, of care and forgiveness, of silliness and play. We also put the other’s patience to practice (ha) and learned how to better navigate difficult conversations. Before me she didn’t believe that love was worth fighting for, nor did she think she could feel it so deeply. Now she does. And in more than words and daydreams, I learned what love is.
The next day I woke up early and couldn’t fall back asleep. I went outside and decided to walk up the bike path by the lake for a few hours. Memories and flashbacks flickered like torches in the dark night of consciousness. Wild Geese later came to mind as I got closer to my destination. I recited the poem a few times like a mantra until I reached the cove. The water was calm, the skies overcast. Beside me were the remains of a recent fire. I reached into the pit for scraps of charcoal and began writing my favorite lines into the rock. A peaceful, trance-like state overcame me. My fingers darkened with each line, and then it was done. I turned toward the dolostone surrounding me and thought of my friend who fell somewhere nearby years ago. It was a 70ft fall, one that she survived.
Later I’m approached by two women. They’re friendly and ask if they can look at what I’d written. One of them tells me she’s a native of the land, a woman of the Abenaki. We talk briefly before our eyes settle on the horizon, where the Adirondacks stand grand and timeless. She then asks if she can sing a song for me in the language of her people. Her voice is gentle and reassuring like the wind, firm and strong too like the thrust fault that birthed this place. The song carries itself over three lines I don’t understand but feel held by. In the quiet warmth that follows her last note she hugs me tightly and wishes me well. I run into them again on the way out, and the Abenaki woman hands me a hawk feather and says: I think he dropped it for you.
On the walk home, I think to myself (and am reminded by a dear friend) that these sorts of things happen to me with a strange frequency. Whoever, whatever is watching over me, all I can say is, I feel held. I see the signs, the doors and invitations, and I know I have to keep walking this way.
