light and angles

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I still get choked up when I talk about some of the hard stuff.

I do this thing where I’m in the middle of a word, and my nose starts to burn and I lose all the saliva in my mouth. Then I cough, regain composure, and finish what it was I was trying to say in the first place.

Usually something like this:

I really miss it.

By the way, don’t ever watch the movie, Her, if you’re in the middle of a divorce of any kind.
Or do, actually. I thought it was a beautiful, sad, and melancholic movie, but an important one. The computer asks him at one point, “What was it like to be married?”

‘Well, it’s hard for sure. But there’s something that feels so good about sharing your life with somebody.’

Sometimes it feels good to be sad.
To not having anything to say on the matter.
Just to sit in the wonderful melancholy of a good song,
or what it was like to hold hands on a walk,
and to see the sun catch her angle just right.

I really did like being married.

One of the hardest things, is seeing the people you grew with, still in theirs.

I ache because I feel like I should be with them in this process saying, “Yeah, marriage is tough right?!” while we sit around and drink too much wine and contemplate our next house project.

I feel like so many people are hurt in these things. I sensed it made my married friends hold more tightly to one another at the end of the night, and to be thankful they weren’t experiencing what we were going through.

You think about that a lot. What other people think.

Nobody can stop you from doing that. You will even tell yourself to not compare your relationship or failures or whatever it is you want to call it. But you will. And it is there you will have to meet yourself with some grace and humility.

oof. that was really loud.

her-movie-2013-screenshot-los-angeles

No one ever hops into a relationship to feel bad about themselves, or to break each others hearts. You do it because you want to experience that wild and infatuating type of love, where the idea of losing the other person makes you tear up. And then they fart out loud, and you laugh saying, “Sheesh…dude!”

Loving another human being deeply is always dangerous. I kinda love that. You’re making a statement that you aren’t afraid of what that will do to you. It’s an insane, kinda love.

When you have it, you know it.

And with that knowledge, there is always the tiniest little part that knows at any moment, the world could open up under your feet. But I’m reading a book that says love is staying together and choosing to stay together regardless, because it’s a promise.

Yeah, there are certainly limits to that rule, and many relationships just need to go their separate ways. We seem to think we are doomed, but really it’s about changing and shifting together. That’s hard. It’s the hardest thing to do besides figuring out which person is in charge of dishes, or cleaning the bathroom.

I lost a person in this whole thing.

I lost her touch and intimacy and willingness to grow alongside me.

But you gain things too.

That’s how losing someone or something works.

You gain humility. The light that is in good things becomes brighter. Sharper. Consistently wonderful. At times, painfully nostalgic.

You’re always, always, always learning.

The energy — the thing that brought you both together isn’t wasted, but it is transformed into a new trajectory. Like space jetsam and flotsam colliding — getting launched deeper into the cosmos.

It’s a balance of give and take.

I really liked being married.
There was something nice about spending your life with another person. And it is hard.

But sometimes, life creates an abundance of grace for you to waddle in when things go astray.

It is there that you will see the light over the horizon.

and you will drive, endlessly into it,

eager to lose yourself in its beauty all over again.