Dear Me: It's Time to Heal Your Heart.
I’m a divorced 43 year old woman and every morning I wake up, I hold my hand on my heart and give thanks for the fact that it’s still beating. After realizing the amount of loss and grief I’ve personally experienced, sometimes I am amazed I’m still here. This isn’t to say I need pity or am even inviting you to my party of one, I am only saying that I think the highest form of respect is to honor where you are and where you’ve come from. To see it for what it is, and not try to air brush.
I sit in frequent conversation with myself to ask “why did I go through all that I did”, only to sit here in the same moment of “singlehood” reflection without loud answers. Perhaps I need to adjust my ears and my vision that the whisper of my life reveals it isn’t the exact same spot, but perhaps a more elevated spot on the same circle of life. With the new found ability to see the path I’ve walked from a greater height and distance, I now know it’s value for me.
I’ve survived a lot. I survived a divorce, losing my life as I knew it with the safety net of a spouse who at least was a warm body to snuggle up to at night. I survived the death of my dad at my ripe, or not so ripe, age of 36 and that moment, if I’m really honest with myself, was a moment that catapulted me into the depths of even greater loss. From there, the rule of three caught hold and I was once, twice, three times a lady who sang a song of loss. I subsequently lost my godmother and then my uncle, both of whom were major players in the family theme and foundation of my life.
Along the way, I forgot that I am a woman who survived all of these things to let me know that the outcome of life is actually irrelevant. It’s not what matters. What matters is the journey and how well we choose to make peace or not make peace with each moment. It’s how well we love ourselves as we grow through adversity. It’s to see how we choose to diminish our light because we judge our light as different, and therefore inferior, to the hue of every other person around us.
My heart, it’s time to know that being an individual means that the light I shine is going to be unique to me. It means that each lesson I encountered on my path wove its way through my body to birth one note, a musical note that leaves its resonance in the sound of my breath. I hear the tone each morning in the silence of my meditation and begin to understand that it’s the totality of the symphony of my lessons that offer the greatest harmony and healing. And if I listen hard enough, my song sounds something like Elton John’s, “I’m Still Standing”.
Yet, when I look down and see my feet still standing on the grass and am no longer able to notice if it is still green, I think it’s time to heal my heart. I want to see the green again in my own yard. I want to know that every stretch of green blade means an equal stretch in healing and sprouting in exhilaration to feel the sun. I want to know the merit the grass has in being the earth that supports my feet in every step, as I begin again.
When I sit and listen to my heart and to the cave of miraculous wonders that exists in it, it tells me that the truth I seek is never far away. It is always right here, in each moment. It tells me that my heart beats for me every day and in each beat, it delivers an echo, a pulse of what it’s trying to tell me and the resonance it holds is far greater than any wonders my mind falls short to understand.
Healing the heart takes compassion. Healing takes time. It takes knowing the right salve to put on the wound for its greatest support in allowing it to heal from the inside out. A hug like the warmest of Sundays, of staying in bed in the softest cotton sheets, and feeling the quench of the strongest thirst. I am alive for a reason; I am still here for a reason. It may not be to ever know the feel or touch of another partner, but it is here to let me feel the miraculous nature of being alive. Being alive is vital, it’s what we are here to do.
The waves of compassion lapped at my shore once or twice before, but they come in tides. Seasons of waxing and waning and trusting that my inner sense of self knows that the height of compassion is met by the height of the tide of healing. It’s a rhythm and sync to life.
The heart and soul of a woman is to love. It is to beat for the world as she understand that her cosmic children and siblings all feel what she feels. Remorse, regret, loss, love, compassion, healing, truth, and dignity. Dignity to start again. Dignity to let go of what didn’t work and yet continue forward. We as women are born angelic, that means with wings that were always there to help us fly. It’s time for me to heal my heart and remember my wings. I am not among the forgotten, I am among the remembered. For what I thought was lost, was only lost from my imagination and knowing of the truth of who I am.