The Storms of Loss
July 9, 2010 § 4 Comments
O.K., yeah, so, loss. Loss, really, when you think about, is so perplexing. We don’t talk about it at all, though we sure do feel it. I don’t need to go into the daily losses, because you know them intimately, even if you’ve grown inured to their pain, or oblivious to their presence.
The loss I’m thinking about now is the big one, the death of someone you really can’t live without. I mean, you can, because you must, but I’m thinking that I’m not the only person who walks around with two big honking knives (no, meat cleavers!)—one in my heart, and one in the middle of my forehead—related to the endless missing of at least one someone.
Tonight I was driving from Love Lane, again the sky an incredible pink, with magnificent blue clouds, thinking about how amazing it is that we live on a planet such as this, with such amazing wonders, and we drive in little gas-powered vehicles, slightly inebriated, and we hurt so bad. I mean, even if we’re happy we hurt.
Reggie, in a talk I was reading today, was saying that our body is made up of storms. You can feel it, if you settle down and tune in for a minute: sudden thunder strikes and lightening bolts and massive winds and rain. This goes on moment after moment, endlessly. Storms in our body. And you add to those storms the death of your childhood bestfriend, or your young husband, or the pain of just about the sweetest little furry girl you could ever imagine.
What are we doing here, on this planet? How do we deal with all this pain? I’ll tell you what I’m doing tonight, as Scout circles by the water bowl behind me, his feet caked with shit, his eyes two pointy blurs: I’m opening my shirt and splitting open my chest, and shoving out my heart and saying, “Here. See it? It’s been beating continually for 54 years—54 years!—and I will allow it to break over and over again, if it means I can love that much more kindly, sanely, and deeply.” (Please, please, let me do that.)
There. That’s what I’m doing with my loss tonight.