She made me cry when she asked that of me last weekend, and she said she appreciated the empathetic response.
She's in such wrenching turmoil about her fragile relationship of low double-digit years. She asked me because she knows I've navigated the same rapids she's now riding. She's given it all she has -- or all she can give without losing herself completely.
Her ache is palpable. Her fear is uncomfortably familiar.
She poured out to me her murky liquid feelings, knowing I'd almost succumbed in the same mire and could throw out a sturdy lifeline, or at least point her to the shoreline.
She thinks I'm more than a survivor of heartbreak; she's seen me heal from the damage and pronounces me a warrior and a guide. She's watching me open the door again. Through my (brave, she says) example, she finds comfort and hope. She sees me calm, now; fearless and assured. Smiling and laughing with no visible scars. Conversation unpunctuated by tears.
She wants to believe she can endure, and she believes I have the answer.
She knows me well enough to ask, but not quite well enough to know I don't want to tell her.
Self-protection from the pain of recent years has prevented me from plumbing the deep passion of which I am capable. Yes, I'm letting myself feel again, but ever so carefully. Too careful, maybe. Extremely circumspect, like someone who almost drowned but longs for the thrill of the dive. Standing at the end of the board, toes tightly curled around the edge.
I want to let go, let it happen, let it be whatever it is, let it breathe. I want to freefall without asking permission...come on, I want to say, let's just leap! And if we land in mounds of feathers, we'll giggle, and bathe in joy. If we land on chards of glass, we'll bleed a little, dress the wounds, and get up.
I admit I am afraid to bleed again. But I'm much more afraid to miss the possible joy.
Fucking duality.
I told her there are two emotions from which all others emanate: love and fear. Fear prevents us from being completely alive. Love allows it to flow.
I told her, without love -- chasing it, longing for it, having it, losing it -- life is dry as the desert in July. Not a life worth living; not for me. Not if I have to keep my heart out of sight.
That's why I cried. Her question is my question, too.
I told her, the reply to that query is always the same: if you want to live this life for all it's worth, the answer is...you don't.
And then I told her not to listen to me.
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