I woke up reaching for her, but she wasn’t there, my arm moving, hand pushing through pillows, clawing at blankets, patting her side, empty. My diaphragm felt it first, a gasp for air, it came at me hard-stinging my senses into wakefulness- she was gone. I checked the time, 3:45AM. Sleep wasn’t an option.
The endless questions could not be silenced; the turbulence building in my body would not go away, I was sick on all accounts. This is how I started my day. The heaviness of fog covered me, hung around me like a cape of sadness, dark, sullen and hard to shake.
I read, I prayed, I meditated, I tossed, I groaned, and I suffered, but the sun still rose, and the coffee brewed. My responsibilities called me to task forcing me out of my head, redirecting my attention, restoring my sanity. As the day progressed I felt lighter. Being in service to my clients, trying to fully align myself with my purpose felt good: they saved me without knowing.
Alone again, driving in my car, every single song on pop- radio, rock-radio, every station from here across the country reeks of love, heartache and heartbreak, and this fact has just come to me, and nothing, not even an open sunroof on a sunny day can take the pain away. I’m hiding behind gigantic-fly-eyes sunglasses, tears rushing down my face, salt on my lips, cold nose, griping hands focused on the wheel.
I make it to Yoga, my reprieve-my escape from the seductive nature of my thoughts. The ramblings and ranting of what could I have done, how could she, why did it, I don’t understand, it doesn’t make sense, this isn’t right, how, where, why and what, or any other notion that could somehow feed this incredible feeling of loss.
The room is heated-it wraps me and engulfs me like a womb of strength. I flow with a series of organized movement; focusing on my breath, sweat leaking from the top of my head forming puddles of what’s left of me. This is the cleansing of my soul, releasing the blood of the demons like a slow turning pressure valve, letting go little by little.
The class is over, we’re on our backs, fans are blowing above us, the woman next to me is crying as the instructor reads aloud, “Taking risks is what it means to be alive.” Was it a stretch for me to take such a risk, to love so hard only to be let down? Reaching for someone, and some (thing) between us was like trying to catch the unobtainable.
The fact is I’m always reaching for more, and she’s not here to fill me up, not here for me to hear the sound of her voice, see the specs in her eyes, smell the sugar on her skin, to taste her mouth as she parts her lips. I can’t hear the roar of her laughter, or see the point of her tooth when she smiles. I can’t feel the heat of her body lying next to me when I reach out for her in the night.
To take the risk to love her made me feel alive, getting over her is to grieve that life.