Tia, suspended over Gulf of Mexico (photo by Bruce)
It is starting to sink in. My life, as I know it, is coming to an end. (Is there a kinder way to say it?) And I am slowly sinking down into the depths of my being where all of the unanswered questions, unacknowledged emotions and any last morsels of all of my unfinished business reside. If I allow myself to fully lean into that sensation of sinking, I surprise myself by finding that I can still breath through it. Perhaps with a bit more effort and with a distinct feeling of pressure in my chest, but I can still breathe. From moment to moment, the heaviness in my gut adjusts itself, as if some internal gauge was regulating my buoyancy in the ocean of my emotions. I am terrified. I am watching as the safety net of my life is being disconnected (was it ever really there?) in order to be boxed up and labeled for shipping. To be reconnected, much later, at a far off place that as of right now only exists for me on a map on our wall. It must actually exist. I have spoken to people who live there. But there is nothing within me that I can tap into for knowing it right now. And as the illusion of stability is being stripped away all around me, (most recently by two husky piano movers who came to take away our first-ever purchase together the day after we got married), I stand here naked and raw.
Begging(!) not to have to let go of another thing.
And more vulnerable than I have felt in far longer than I can recall. In my teary-eyed and shaking state, I am left to decipher if who I am is connected to a place, to the people I call my family, or the things that surround me - or none of the above. When I step forth into this mystery with none of those things with me - and even what I will have, will get sprayed down with a disinfectant once I get there - who will I be at that moment? Who am I with each breath I take? Am I leaving this reality to indulge in an illusion I have created in my head? Or am I waking up from a dream to be fully here - wherever that may be?