Yesterday I walked into a church.
And picked up my former partner’s CSA share.
A church is where food belongs, anyway, because whole food is holy.
I worship at the alter of puckering blueberries and thin-skinned cucumbers. I prostrate at the mudded feet of good farmers.
And while my former partner and I are solidifying the finalities of our break-up, we haven’t forgotten what remains between us, the silent knowing of limitless love that exists between two people who can let go, momentarily, of their human roadblocks to briefly share a bundle of precious, organic, wild food. Whole food. Whole love.
In the past 3 months I have experienced 3 of some of the biggest stressors of the human experience:
a dear childhood friend took her own life, my 3.3 year quasi-life-partnership broke up, and I am now moving.
Everyone said: Laura, get a storage space.
Everyone said: Laura, don’t get rid of everything.
But I did. Get rid of everything. And I didn’t. Get a storage space.
Because sometimes letting go is the only option when you’re standing on a bridge and below you the water that rolls over stones is everything you’ve ever known and it’s passing along and rushing away and there’s no point in chasing it. It cannot be caught. It’s water. It’s not actually yours.
Yesterday, I walked into a church. Sometimes, when everything is falling apart, what’s really happening is things are actually breaking open. And that breaking open allows a consciousness to be created; the kind that sees colors brightly, crisply, sweetly. Awakening.
Within the deepest sadness can lay brightness; wistfully (and sometimes fitfully) slumbering: brightness. The ache slows everything down.
The ache makes one see everything clearer.
And then sometimes, it just fucking aches.
It just aches,
and it aches
and it aches.
I once ghostwrote a book in which I spoke about grief being a bridge from despair to joy. I don’t pretend that things are that easy, or that there ever truly is an ANSWER- more so, perhaps, a feeling (if one is lucky). I learned in literature class that any book that claims to be the only answer, or even a certifiable answer to the incomprehensible experience of being is most likely human made, and not divine.
I’m not giving any answers here. I’m just sending you a postcard. Slipping a snapshot.
I’m just walking the bridge, which might be a church, which might be inlaid with the skins of melons. Spangled with blueberries.
I wish I could reveal more; but this is a start. I had this thought that maybe I didn’t have to write about marketing, about writing to sell something, about copy and copy and copy. When one experiences so much loss in such a short amount of time, it can give a kind of freedom: this is where I am. I am a writer, and copy was not my first fascination. Revelation was. Questioning was.
So here’s to walking into new churches. And here is a song that I love by a composer who consistently blows the roof off my mind and my skirt up over my face, and without whom I would not have been able to write this post.