In the Beginning, Part III

Coming out of the weekend low hasn't been easy, but I suppose it's fortunate life goes on. Guests come and go, the house must be cleaned, work has to be finished. So in spite of some very bad days, once again I'm climbing my way out of the pit.

Before I digressed, I was writing about how grief had opened a spiritual realm I'd only thought I knew previously; and, I suspect, I only think I know now. I think what's been most evident to me since my husband left is the channel for love that opened in my heart. Not just love for him, because even though I sometimes feel angry and disillusioned, I know I truly do love him on a deeper level, a level that will carry me through everything, even divorce. But what has surprised me most is the other love, the love I feel for everything and everyone, the connection with people I never had before, the part of me that would never want to put any kind of pain out into the world again...

Yet while I work daily to develop this compassion and love for others, the place where I've had the most trouble is with him. Early on when my moments of anger arose and I felt I had no where else to turn, I often unleashed it on him. Such was not a loving thing to do, especially to someone who had lived with an alcoholic mother, and already equated me with her anyway. I'm not proud of those moments, but there's no taking them back, so I've apologized and try to find other outlets for those feelings now. I think it's just that some days I miss/ed him so much, I look for any way I can to connect. Most of the time he's been there for me, but what hurts in the end is that it's not the same. Nothing hurts more than someone you've been married to for 12 years saying, 'I love you as a person.'

So I learned to pray. I pray every day: to release him, to forgive him, to find my way again, to want to live again, to say the right things to him, for him to find peace for his own life, for me to find peace for mine. I seek small comforts: a glass of wine on the back porch in the evening, playing my guitar, hugging my cats, reading a good book, listening to the birds, notes from supportive friends. I work very hard to stay 'present,' and more often than not I fail. I ask myself - and God - if I'll ever feel happy again, and I don't get an answer. And yet, maybe the answer is the peace that lives in my house, a miracle I'll write more about another time...

And so it goes. From the time he left until now, this is my life. Is it better than it was in the beginning? Maybe there are more good days, but somehow, the bad days feel worse. So I continue to pray and wait, because in the end, there's really nothing else I can do.