the sky

"Emotions are spontaneous," said Paul, the meditation instructor. "They come from the limbic system. You have no control. But they're fleeting. They pass through, they leave. When they come, it's okay to acknowledge them. Recognize them, allow them to happen, investigate them with curiosity, and don't identify yourself as them. When you feel anger, know that you are not the anger. The emotion is a cloud. You are the sky."
It was such a lovely sentiment. And for my daily meditation log, I capture those experiences that are "pleasant" and I capture the "unpleasant" experiences. I investigate the physical sensations of these experiences, allow them to happen, and move on.

But I have spent years in the darkness. And today, even as I experience the pleasure of meeting with friends, riding my bicycle in the sunlight, eating sushi, laughing, listening to books, I experience the "pleasant" moments. I feel where they reside in my body: a loosening of my shoulders and a depth in my breathing. But throughout the day, there is also a sorrow, so deep inside me I cannot differentiate it from my moment-to-moment experience. I cannot step aside from it, examine it with curiosity. It is the darkness and the pain from something so deep it has become me, wrapped itself around my roots and grafted to my person. The loss. The sorrow. The knowledge of a person I will never see again. The body I will never touch. The love I will never again feel. The laughter I will never hear again. The children I will never have. It is not the cloud. It is not fleeting, this pain in my heart. It lives in me. After all these years, it is my heart. Sjors. You are my heart. You are a part of me. You are my pain. You are the sky.

"Depression happens when we look at the past, which is unchangeable," said Paul. "And anxiety is when we anticipate the future, which is unknowable. All we have is this moment. Being here now."

So what happens when the past is part of the present. As real to me as the dinner I just cooked, or the warm and tumbled clothes I pull from the dryer and fold?

I've committed to this meditation practice. Every day I spend 40 minutes listening to the instructions, following them, I connect with my body, my breathing. For the first time in years I try to live in the moment instead of run away or distract myself. And in these still and silent moments I find you here. With me. This body, which I have despised and made to forget you with dozens of men, still remembers what it was to be with you. These hands remember the rough tender skin on the back of your neck. These thighs remember your weight, the hardness of your torso, these lips remember your mouth. There isn't a piece of me that has forgotten you.

On Sunday I sat next to San on a lounge chair next to a pool in Connecticut. It was her sister-in-law's house and we wore her sister-in-law's bathing suits. The sun was hot and the air was heavy.
"I know I'm moving on," she said. "I know I've changed in the past six months since he died. I know I have to - if I want to get better. But I wish I hadn't. I want to go back."
Lost for words, I could only nod, and listen,
"I don't let myself believe he's gone," she said. "I can't explain it. I don't believe he's gone. I can't accept it. Maybe people think I'm crazy. But I don't believe he's gone."
"I understand," I told her. "Who says you have to accept it?"
"I have to," she said. "If I'm going to get better. But I don't want to get better."
Well, my friend. Who said that "getting better" was ever the goal? Its been four years since Sjors last loved me, and I've never gotten better. I've never believed he was gone.