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.

I’ve set out on this journey… and a few of you, as well. I thank you for the company.

Some days it feels as though we’ve cast out far from shore, making headway to new lands within us and without. Other days I’m certain we’ve only imagined rowing, and are still on dry land, with sore muscles from stirring the sand.

As I was going through some recent writings of mine, I found the following. It’s a good thing to share, I think, as we embark (and re-embark, and re-embark, again) on our respective courses…

One does not recalibrate a compass.

Like the heart, it is not a machine to be wrenched nor a scale to be reckoned. It is obliged to magnetism, compelled by a pull beyond its reason and perhaps sometimes, too, against its most obstinate will.

A compass can only pulse and wiggle residing in the hand of its bearer; a constant ally when trusted or idle coxswain when unemployed. Like the heart beating now beneath your breast, each flutter will, if you attend, implore you to its home, coerce your calculated maps, and issue a course of its own choosing.

What then, is the bearer to do when his mind and body must navigate a terrain, altered and inhospitable, at the command of such a capricious star? Is there no arguing with this ceaseless needle? Are we rendered agents of whim?

As for this traveler, I risk assent to the pulls of poles and pray the path does not devastate. I endeavor to trust that my heart, like a needle in her glass dome, will not be so easily swayed from its final destination and that if heeded, will not leave me lost in a wilderness of good intent.

As we go, I wish you guiding winds, kind seas, hearty anchors to rest above, and song, song, song,
sung heartily on the decks.

…

I have seen you young.

I have seen you old.

I have seen you in love with someone else.

I have seen you hurt.

I have seen you laugh.

I have seen you rage, and weep, and crumble.

I have seen you win.

I have seen you steal.

I have seen you give without want.

I have seen you play.

I have seen you sleep.

I have seen you smile, and wonder, and pause.

…

In that embrace across space,
I see you, love,

and love what I see.

Can you see me?
Can you see me?

When I cannot find a note on my instrument, I close my eyes to hear it.
When I seek the center of a character, it comes in the cloister of backstage.
When I want to taste every flavor, I shut out all sensation past my tongue.
When I lose my sense of direction, I stop to see where shadows lie,
and thus discover the light.

So it cannot be all bad, the dark.
Despite the fear I might feel in it.

“Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his eyes be closed, as if darkness were indeed the proper element of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey part.”
-Herman Melville, from Moby Dick