This writing class has become a conduit for my life’s blood. It’s one way I see inside and a place I let myself glance, however cursorily, into those aching wounded fearful places and experience them on the page, with witnesses. It is also the place where I explore and dream and hope and wonder because that is what is primarily inside of me though I had lost track of it for a long long time.
It’s a time to wonder. It’s a time to explore. It is fucking time to hope again, to set myself up with chances for joy and delight, to allow in the faith that life holds as much joy as I’m willing to absorb.
There’s a lining on the clouds these days. Sometimes the sun breaks through. On my morning walks by the river with my friend, we imagine. I am beginning to visualize a different life, a free, undetermined, joy-filled, creative life where I’m busting at the seams. Where dreams become reality like they used to, where I have the energy to create and plan and manifest. The last 3+ years of living with a deeply depressed and therefore self-absorbed person have wiped out my inherent ebullience and positive “can-do” mindset.
This week he agreed to a separation. I will finally have time and space to RELAX. To stop carrying his world, his heavy, weighted world, on my shoulders. I have become exhausted. I am beginning to feel hope again that I can regain the fabulous life I used to have, that one day soon, after the grief, or, perhaps, as the grief pours through me. Perhaps the grief will flood me and wash out the rage and fury and resentment and sadness and expectations and hopes and dreams for our marriage and will leave me e m p t y.
Then, in that silence and vastness, I imagine the fresh tender shoots of spring flowers beginning to emerge, tilting their heads towards me as if to encourage me too to come out of the cold dark ground and to greet the sunny warm days with color and freshness. I am preparing. My colors are ready to bloom.