It is day 30, but this is letter 26 to you, so that means I missed 4. It means I doubled up some days, and let some days pass without writing to you. It means there were days that I just could not come to the page. The 26 letters I’ve written to you these past 30 days have laid me bare, have opened me up, have been a good friend to return to, have given me space, have deepened my practice. Thank you to whoever is reading.
Some days the practice of returning here was the point at which I punctuated my day, noticed myself. But some days, there was just moving through days I certainly didn’t want to punctuate or notice. Being angry, triggered, loving on and being loved on by others, caring for my dog that saw something that freaked her out in my bedroom but we didn’t see if it was a mouse or a ghost. Enjoying children and then getting annoyed of children. Hoping for good turnout and always getting exactly the turnout that was supposed to be there. Looking at something you wrote yesterday, and realizing it doesn’t feel right today. Feeling like only being inside can hold you today. Outside is a lot, plus it’s windy and cold. But i can’t really be inside without coming in from the cold these days.
We carry on, don’t we?
In finding ways to connect with those who have once disappointed us. In staying and seeing that yes we are still in community and I still rely on you, you on me, and we keep trying to do this. In realizing sometimes with those closest to us, we are translating ourselves forever and that we can stop to do a new thing. In noticing when those we most desire something from can not hold us, standing beside us from time to time is also nice.
So yeah this time of year, but many other times of the year, we find ourselves with people who cannot hold us any longer, but still stand beside us. It reminds me of how sometimes we do begin to hold ourselves, when others let go. That does happen. And so we can look at the letting go as a kind of holding too.
To be a separated parent is to know how letting go can also be a holding. I won’t lie and say that I imagined parenting this way. Or that I often don’t ache to smell them next to me in bed. Or that it’s easy.
But what I know is they are standing and smiling as they leave me. They don’t ache for me because they know I will always be here, I will always return. And they teach me how to leave them. We leave each other smiling, excited for the next transition, mourning a bit but not mourning like all the books write about it, mourning like a rich longing that weirdly fills you, often times as much or more than the getting. Each time we leave we are surprised by what we can do with our own hands. We thrill ourselves.
So I left everyone and came to a house out by the water for a few days by myself to think and breathe and see different things and that can only be because we now leave each other.
My mood is what it is. I don’t have lightness these days, but I have never been one to be light lol. I haven’t known how to write the past few days. The urge was to just hole up with my books, and be silent. Come back in a week, a month a year, and say something to make sense of it all.
The attempt at closing out this last 30th day of this particular project with some words is what I came to do. I don’t attempt to make sense of things. Not even myself. Or my feelings. I give them space on the page. To see them from a different light. See what is next. See what was before. The art is in making it somehow beautiful by the simple fact of it existing? The art is in making it.
A friend said something to me like, What if we consider we are all grieving right now? I’m thinking of this. I’m not sure what it means for me if it’s true, it if means I even do anything differently. I don’t even know if this moment contains more or less grief than any other time. It’s really hard to compare whether times truly were better or we were too busy to see what was happening around us. If we were dulling the grief of being alive with all that stuff.
It’s 1 am and these dogs are fussing because I’m writing in the room without a rug and they can’t relax until I do. So I have to end this unsure of what I am even saying. But that’s ok I guess.