The fear of losing LOSS as a companion is as real as rock. Loss does not require a person to strive. Loss does not ask anything of us. So we find comfort in loss. It becomes a friend. Loss sits with us like a mirror, and we can look into it with unceasing inquisition, and never get an answer. And never get peace.

Loss loves us like lust, and licks wounds that might otherwise heal if left out in the air.

We can sit in loss (of whatever):

friendship
love
money
career
faith
keys

like a wading pool.

And in a contented way, we might even presume that we’re technically still swimming.

But loss, like a rock, if held onto, becomes an weight that does not allow for gain.

And what could we gain?

friendship
love
money
career
faith
keys (actually, no. those are still lost.)

I admit, when I feel the cloud – the cover – of loss start to move away from me, there’s a part that panics. What if the light is too bright? Who am I without it? If loss does not define my depth, will happiness make me shallow?
And on and on
until I find
I’ve spent my days
pursuing the path of shadows…

There is a time
when loss should live beside us;
it is a field
to be plowed with sorrow, yes,
but (I believe)
must be sowed with hope in return,
lest it lay
shaded by clouds
and barren by choice.

Loneliness stands out to me today as an unavoidable side-effect of personal journey. You can be surrounded by people, never alone, and still feel isolation, like a ghost beside you. It’s a faithful hound that does not leave your knee.

I have thought on it’s remedy. For it’s not the donor of funds, nor the doer of deeds, nor the dinner-dropper-offer that alleviates this particular ailment. Please, don’t misunderstand, they are good and generous things, appreciated and valued, and are, at times, the best we can do for each other.

I remember a story a nurse friend of mine told me. He worked in pediatric intensive care. Most of the children had parents nearby and an entourage of doctors in constant rotation about them. There was one child though, not yet a toddler, who was being medically cared for but without parents frequently around. And this baby would cry. He was hooked up to a gad of gadgets, and IV’s, and what-nots, and he would cry all the time.

His “pain” was being managed. His medication was being administered. Attendants would come with balloons and puppet shows and cartoons and crayons, but this boy just cried.

One shift, my friend, he walked into this baby’s room and sat at the foot of his bed and just held his feet. That’s it. Just put palm-of-hands on soles-of-feet, and you know?

He stopped crying.

He wasn’t “fixed.”
He wasn’t “healed.”
He wasn’t anything different
than what he was
two minutes prior.
But he was better.

See, sometimes the moon is too thin and the clouds are too thick and we can miss without relief. And sometimes, just having a witness beside you is what makes it okay.

So today, my good thing is you. You’ve come here. You’ve read this far. You’ve listened to my story. Now I’ll listen to yours…

An imagination exercise:

Grab a cup of coffee (or tea).
Sit down.
I’ll sit beside you.
We can talk if you want to, or we can just be still.
You can cry and I won’t tell.
You can yell and I won’t run.
You can laugh, and laugh hard.
I’ll get water for the hiccups.

Or just give me your feet for a while.

I don’t mind holding the sole.

Come play upon my cheek,

chill my fingers,
fill my ear.

Carry the scent of tomorrow to me (and swear).

Promise.

Promise.

Urge the mill, and ache the tree,
bend the wheat, but please,

please,

just dance with me.