I have recently had to part with someone I love very much. When we last spoke, there were things left unsaid and unexplored. I told my loved one that the time to speak was now. They were not ready, and we parted ways, aware that the time to speak may never come.
Lately I have been surrounded by people who have recently been separated from a loved one through the end of a relationship or even death. I have witnessed an incredible sense of urgency in these people and in myself. This urgency, this energy, this desire to fix and mend, is often directed towards the situation instead of towards our own inner restlessness.
This morning when I woke up, the first thing I wanted to do was write my loved one about the failings I had discovered in their relationship to time. Their fears, their missteps had become clear to me, and with the greatest love for them I wished to share this immediately so that they may become free of it. And maybe I will share it some day, even soon. But I realized that I had not addressed my own failings. My email, because of the incredible desire in me to speak to my friend, would have been desperate. However faintly I could sense this desperation, it was in me. I realized that my focus should be inward. And so this letter to my blog is me stepping back, letting things be.
What did I mean when I told my loved one that the time is now? I meant that the time for "knowing" is now. The time for alignment with life is now. I made the mistake of thinking that my ability to move with life depended on my loved one.
In this world it is 'normal' to see other people, other places, other circumstances as the source of our joy. For me, only when I have been forced to stand still in the face of loss, have I been able to see that the source of all the joy I have ever felt, is my own inward stillness. And I have not just "been able" to see this. I have been left with no choice, because to carry on any other way would mean choosing to live in hell.
There is no denying that my heart contains the deepest sorrow. It is there, inside my chest, with a weight that feels immeasurable. And it will come and go as it pleases. I am here to watch it wax and wane. To nurture it with a gentle touch and a well of patience.
I am here breathing in and out. I don't know why, but I am here.
Lately I have been surrounded by people who have recently been separated from a loved one through the end of a relationship or even death. I have witnessed an incredible sense of urgency in these people and in myself. This urgency, this energy, this desire to fix and mend, is often directed towards the situation instead of towards our own inner restlessness.
This morning when I woke up, the first thing I wanted to do was write my loved one about the failings I had discovered in their relationship to time. Their fears, their missteps had become clear to me, and with the greatest love for them I wished to share this immediately so that they may become free of it. And maybe I will share it some day, even soon. But I realized that I had not addressed my own failings. My email, because of the incredible desire in me to speak to my friend, would have been desperate. However faintly I could sense this desperation, it was in me. I realized that my focus should be inward. And so this letter to my blog is me stepping back, letting things be.
What did I mean when I told my loved one that the time is now? I meant that the time for "knowing" is now. The time for alignment with life is now. I made the mistake of thinking that my ability to move with life depended on my loved one.
In this world it is 'normal' to see other people, other places, other circumstances as the source of our joy. For me, only when I have been forced to stand still in the face of loss, have I been able to see that the source of all the joy I have ever felt, is my own inward stillness. And I have not just "been able" to see this. I have been left with no choice, because to carry on any other way would mean choosing to live in hell.
There is no denying that my heart contains the deepest sorrow. It is there, inside my chest, with a weight that feels immeasurable. And it will come and go as it pleases. I am here to watch it wax and wane. To nurture it with a gentle touch and a well of patience.
I am here breathing in and out. I don't know why, but I am here.
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