A thousand sights you weren’t here to see…

The space you’ve left,

It’s an irregular

Fit.

I’m sure you have seen many beautiful and heart stopping sights.  You’ve travelled overseas, continued your education, reconnected with people who are important to you.  

I’ve ridden and run, and sweated over thousands of miles, much of it alone, a lot of it with our sons, many with of them wondering about “someday.”

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The thousand sunrises that we’ve not shared have still been beautiful, have still held magic, have held wondrous moments all on their own.

Mountain vistas, alpine glades, canyon depths, endless ocean horizons, all the sights we said we’d see. I faced them, I breathed them in, and drank them in.  I wondered, and worried, and wanted at times for it all to be different.  I ached for them to be “our” moments.  

IMG_1435But they weren’t.  I’ve had to learn to take them in a different light. I look around at these memories now, the new ones, the ones that don’t contain you.  The new ones don’t diminish the old.  They are for me, and they wouldn’t have existed with you here.  That isn’t an indictment, it’s just a recognition of the strength we didn’t have, either of us, or as a pair.

These are my memories, this was my pilgrimage.  Having a partner, and confederate, having that irregular space filled, would have been a vision I once held.  Now, I’m learning to hold space for me.  To accept that I AM enough.  That THIS is enough.  That my memories can sustain me, and that OUR memories don’t have to haunt.  That in fact, it IS the process, and NOT the product that matters.  We both have more to do, and it’s alright that we are on different paths.

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Postscript: Brene Brown has been talking to me a lot the last few weekends.  Well, not ACTUALLY talking to me, but her book “Rising Strong” is on the iPod and I’ve two extra long runs the past two Saturdays and a long road trip, so her words have been very present.  During today’s run, the message that rang out was about loss, loneliness and longing, grieving and heartbreak.  It doesn’t stop.  It slows, it circles, it invades your sleep and your waking hours both.  It does pass.

 

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