Let there be space

Thursday

I’m getting under the covers and turning off the lights at the exact moment the person with whom I’ve shared a bed for 33 years is lifting into the sky and soaring over the ocean until together we’ll wake to find ourselves in different worlds.

~

Saturday

He’s in Assisi & I’m in seat at a meditation retreat.

“Let there be space in your togetherness,” I once read in a spiritual text, and didn’t my late mother warn us against our early closeness. “You two spend too much time together.”

“The oak and the maple don’t grow in each other’s shade.”

I think that’s what the teaching said, but still we clung to one another for fear we would slip away like so many loves do.

And yet there is also the concern of rot, of not enough light and air, soil and water.

Which is how we find ourselves in Italy and the Berkshires, and in this spaciousness, may our fruit sweetly ripen.

~

Tuesday

Turns out I missed him which I expected I would, but it still felt good to feel it, like a confirmation of love, though it could just be habit, because the truth is, I haven’t been lonely in bed, not really.

~

Friday

Just one more day.

I’m worried I didn’t grow enough in his absence, didn’t soak it up enough, didn’t expand into it and myself. He is so rarely gone. I am always the one leaving.

~

Saturday

After a cruise around the Island of Capri, he’s in the air again, while I’m cruising muddy roads, thinking I might have to park the car and walk up to the house soon like we did when the boys were young.

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When we knew love…

Another last day of February, and with March comes thoughts of my mother, because shamrocks; but of course, then Valentines Day brings her too. (Aren’t shamrocks made of hearts!)

When Casey fell in love with me, I was as I am now. This is who I am, I said. My heart has been broken. I have already loved deeply and lost tragically. I don’t want marriage. I am afraid of surrender. I am on guard. Always.

That seemed okay for him.

“I’m lucky,” I wrote at the end of our first month together, the very first words I wrote to him in a card.

And then I added: “You’re lucky too.”

Maybe he lacked higher expectations. Maybe I did.

Or maybe what we had in common was our sense of Love as something higher.

We had two boys by the time we came upon this tune. It was winter. It was dark. There was darkness inside and between us.

Her. Voice.

The way she says: Pain. Tears. Heart. Met ours. Even our boys wanted to listen again and again.

The forgetting is the hardest part except that in the forgetting we don’t know what we forgot.

The forgetting makes it hurt less. Helps us surrender into day to day life without the extremes of love, promise, passion, wildness, hurt.

But what about these tears? A piece of good music. A painting. A play. A film. A passage. The light. The silence. A certain smile. Even the air.

There must be, beneath memory, beneath thought, beneath recognition even, a deeper current of being, reminding us of what we once knew.

The moment beckons, but we turn away, anesthetized from what it is to be whole.

~

Or maybe that’s too high an expectation.

Maybe showing for these moments is what is most true.

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