Please forgive me, reader
For my absence
I’ve had inside me a broken heart.
And not knowing what to do with it, I slept.
Sometimes for ten hours, sometimes more. This in addition to horizontal time in bed, eyes fixed on nothing and time spent half-reclined on the couch head in hands, telling myself to breath many times a minute for fear of forgetting how. I don’t recommend this method.
My best friend said it simple:
“a lot of people are struggling right now,”
and I know her to tell the truth.
Among the aggregate lifetimes of struggle among us, I garner many broken hearts. Oh you, too? Welcome. So what do we do with them all?
A broken heart believes itself alone. On the contrary and according to my trusted friend, you will find another nearby. Mine’s right here and yours is right there. See?
I can’t say how to mend yours, though I’m experimenting myself and will report back soon. Writing helps. The Charnel Ground is, after all, a place for breaking open. And herein lies my solution: just break open! I encourage you to wear your broken heart with pride and lustre.
We must expose ourselves through the same cracks that seek to shatter.
I’ve taken to crying in yoga class…like, every time. I never thought I would be this person and I can’t recommend it enough. My mat neighbors can definitely hear me, or feel me. I delight in giving the mental middle finger to my inner “pull yourself together” critic. I’m instead shining on through the cracks.
Another way of shining through the cracks: tell the truth when people ask how are ‘ya. I say, “I miss my grandmother, thanks for asking” or “I’m currently IN IT”. This works and to date no one has recoiled.
What’s your method? Do tell.
Broken hearts contain treasure. I will spend my life drawing this metaphor down, finding words that circle the empty voidness of grief and yearning and make the shape of it more manageable. Turning it into something to hold and behold. In some ways, I pray I never fully say all there is to say on the subject.
When I remember I can write instead of pull the covers over my head, I learn clues that point to the treasure. This metaphor is tired and so, too, am I. The good kind of tired of having spent my life. Before I go, here is an iPhone picture of my favorite place:
