I wrote something different but I accidentally deleted it. And that’s probably for the better. I wrote on how many of my life stages had a perfect end. Not in the happy ending sort of way but in terms of timing. All the schooling, jobs, locations, even the marriage. It was just the right time, whether I liked it or not. There is no need for details.
But every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. It is true of many, if not all, things. I also used to say this – the end is the beginning is the end. I think in some ways it’s one giant unending cycle of starts and finishes. I learned that the love and grace is found in the gaps and seams. In many places I went to, it was the few unexpected moments that stood out. The quiet conversation, the unexpected visit, a note from a student, and more. I miss the simple trips to the grocery store, laughing with my colleagues, eating street cart food, looking for books to read. The big things matter too – and there were highlights for sure.
Recently, my uncle died. He had a difficult journey but accomplished a lot. My aunt said he endured trauma after trauma. I told her that was the mark of a great man. The traumas make us who we are if we survive them. Or maybe we choose them for their own sake for growth. I joke that the point of suffering is to endure more. My friends wave that off but I think there’s truth to it. Those who endure can endure for others. But maybe the whole point of all that trauma was to make us turn to God.
Someone asked me, who comforts me? I didn’t know the answer at the time but I’d say other than God, those who know how to comfort me. And there aren’t that many. I’ve realized that protectors protect protectors. I tell my stories to him. It is somewhat nice and helpful. But recently I talk a bit about you because it’s much more pleasant than talking about pain. You are like the representative of hope. Writing you is the light. But I know God is the true light, so no worries on that front.
I spoke to my prosecutor mentor in Minnesota last night. He misses his wife. I miss my kids. We talked about our casss and how we really couldn’t tell anyone because we wouldn’t be believed or worse. We also talked about the writing process and how feelings are involved. When his wife was dying, he chronicled his helplessness. I read all his posts. He cries in front of me – this hardened former prosecutor and Vietnam veteran. Her name was Becky. I met her once. She had a lovely garden and loved birdwatching.
I have a friend who used to be my spiritual director. She is in her mid 80s. She is from a famous family that made a fortune from the coal industry. Against her family’s wishes, she joins a convent and becomes a nun. She becomes a spiritual director. I’ve known her for more than a decade. She lives by the ocean. Her house has these large windows that look out onto it. She tells me during storms, it is simply breathtaking.
Recently, she said my writing allows people to feel less lonely in their hidden pain. She said I can intuit why it’s difficult for me to find a soulmate. I honestly don’t know the exact answers and I asked her what she meant. She didn’t reply.
I wish people had inquired, listened, saw, understood, and loved me better. Regardless, I think God did. He has made ways when all seemed difficult and even difficult impossible. People fail us. Miserably at times. The ocean has no memory. That’s why my friend lives there.
Songs of Pain and Hope 