A Buried Life

6 Dec

 

Yesterday was hard. It was my birthday. I am most certainly middle aged.

In the midst of overwhelming love came immense sadness. I felt deflated like a balloon emptied of the last bit of air. I am so tired and my heart and soul aches. I feel guilty beyond belief for leaving my students. My inner thoughts seem to pale against the real life problems of so many others. Cancer, divorce, death, illness. I feel weak and without spine and so very guilty for feeling that way. When I think of the millions of people who suffer so much more I go back to my bootstrap mentality, which I think got me into this mess. I have never legitimized my own pain, my own story. Everyone’s situation seemed so much worse than mine that it precluded me feeling anything but outward empathy. And in ignoring my own story, I have diminished the capacity to listen and feel for others, that is the truth of it. I have not filled my own cup of healing.

This morning I awoke with lines from Matthew Arnold’s poem, The Buried Life in my head and I broke. So much of what I have within me wants connection to words with other souls,  that infinite understanding of “yes, I see”.  This is why I need to go away. I have to find a connection within myself. The Beloved’s hand needs to be my own or I will walk the rest of this journey with a hole in me so large, I’ll lose my purpose. I am the only one to heal it. I am.

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