Time Passes, But It Doesn't
[Note: This was supposed to send last week, but glitched. So, I’m sending it now.]
I’m drafting this ahead of time. I said they’re be no new newsletter this week, but I clearly forgot you could schedule them. So, here we are.
Today marks the anniversary of the day my mom died. There are always memories and feelings leading up to it, a bit like a stone path, leading off into a dark wood. Memories unfurl like secrets, unbidden, but real as the moment they happened.
There’s not opting out of recounting the mess. There’s no muting the feelings that swirl around like bright fires of night-bidden things. It is what it is, and it is full of ghosts. And this year, for reasons, is complicated by a different shadow. A widening gulf in my own heart, because of an old relationship changing shape. I can’t say if that process has truly been slow or fast. I only know that sometimes you lose people in pieces, and things are not the same. Like smashing a plate and gluing it back together. At some point, it’s no longer functional. It is just broken.
Months ago, I was telling a dear friend that I am not good at losing people. I hold on, try, fight. He was kind and understanding, and that conversation did much to light up my howling little heart. When someone dies, the result is final. But losing someone slowly in increments until you just feel hollow is something that clings and colors things. I have never been very good at that.
The anniversary, for me, this year is messy—messier than usual. I am taking it in stride as best as I can. Because that’s what you do. There’s no other alternative.
I value people. I value those in my life. I value my relationships. I make damn certain (I hope) that my people know they’re cared for, just as they are. Not some idealized image of them, but actually them, flaws and all. I have learned, through myriad heartaches, to expect the same. To articulate that need. To find those who meet me where I am. To gather those who invite me, when I’m lingering on the outside or feeling unsure.
Someone I deeply adore did that for me recently. And it lit up my heart. Because putting yourself out there, opening up your heart, is hard. And when that happens, and someone says yes and invites you in, instead of leaving you to wonder? That’s magick. Pure and simple.
And if there’s on thing I took my mother’s death, it’s this: move toward joy. Expect and look for magick. Magick is in the everyday things, and it’s right there, waiting to be seen and seized. Waiting to be known, as we are all waiting to be known. That’s a scary idea, sometimes. To be seen. But at the end of the day, we all deserve people who love us when we are messy, broken, and imperfect. And who do not wield any of that as a weapon or to make us the butt of an easy joke. Nothing sets my soul on fire (derogatory) than seeing people do that.
So, on the anniversary of my mother’s death, I will tell you this: love is a force of nature that holds us in the dark, when it feels like the dark is endless. Love meets us with compassion and kindness. Love is unconditional, or it is not love. And when the chips are down and shit gets real, it is love that helps us find our way. And we never do that alone, even when we may feel that we are.