Lightning

In the beginning there was my beloved.
She pulled me out of the vortex centered on myself and into a life, blind with love, filled with devotion, responsibility, purpose, and a sense of accomplishment. Yes, I was a workaholic, and the list goes on of habits that weren’t healthy, but together we had an equation that worked. Our energy, love, and devotion went in one side, and our unity, joy, laughter, and our family balanced on the other.

From a distance, I have had four years to study her—us—our interactions with our children, friends, and family. I see her in all her glory, with all her flaws and failings (far fewer than my own), and she still glows, radiating an aura of beauty and a smile that pulls at me like a sunrise after months of rainy days.

So what is one to do when all that remains are the scars of separation? What is one to do when they have done all the right things—mourned, worked hard to heal body, mind, and soul? I found some solace in community, in the groups of those who share the same wounds I have, and in the suburban sanghas of yoga and meditation. I even tried to find another a few times but quickly realized something wasn’t right. Then, struck by the realization that I am sufficient, I have drunk deep of life’s nectar, and my thirst is slaked. So I rummaged through the keepsake box that sits on my dresser, found my ring—one of the two we placed on each other’s fingers fifty years ago this coming May—and held her scarf to my face, grateful that lightning struck once, as my thoughts return to the beginning.