I painted yesterday. As soon as I got a taste, I wanted more. I can feel it even as I type- I’m craving those colors, wanting to dip my fingers into cobalt, phthalo turquoise and yellow ochre. I want to squeeze those tubes of hot pink into my mouth.
Hiking has felt that way too. Anything that makes me feel better – sweating, creating, connecting, it all feels like the most potent medicine. I am like a starving person. None of it is lost on me.
That’s part of this experience too. Where do I belong? Who do I belong to?
When the man I’ve been seeing for the last year broke up with me recently, I cried in my friends’ arms. My sweet friend that insisted on spending the night, who heard my voice shake and texted a few moments later: “I’m coming over right now and staying the night.”
She arrived with strawberries and whipped cream, wine, chocolate and two lottery tickets. And when the grief was overwhelming, she held me while I wept – a cry from such a deep, old place I hardly recognized it. A child’s tears… and I found myself saying: “He didn’t choose me. He didn’t choose me. I want someone to choose me…”
I want to know who I belong to.
“You belong to your boys,” the intuitive bodyworker said to me years ago. “You will always have your boys.” This is before I decided to leave, before I said those words: I can’t do this anymore… before everything unravelled.
Lost. In limbo. In between. Wobbling about.
“That hurt we embrace becomes joy. Call it to your arms where it can change.” I read this line in a Rumi poem recently. I think he’s talking about self-compassion and the alchemy of grief. That’s the water I’m swimming in folks. I know I’m not alone.
P.S. This is an example of Brave Blogging! Will you join me in doing more of it? Class begins on Monday!