I sat in a cafe in Paris.
We’d been traveling for a few weeks and I was alone for what felt like the first time in ages.
I sat at the bar and chatted with the barista about his travels and my heart.
He wrote me a list of coffee shops to visit in London and a sweet girl from across the cafe’ joined in our conversation about how much they wanted me to visit Australia.
I wrote in my journal, “How can I feel more connected to the strangers in this cafe’ than I do to the person I love? Why do I feel more at home in this place than I do in the arms of my husband?”
I don’t talk about my marriage much.
I’m not sure I’ve talked about it at all actually.
While I can freely share the experiences of my own heart, I guess where I fail as a writer and as a sharer is the discomfort I have with sharing my perception of another’s heart and experience. It keeps me from telling of my observations and sharing intimate parts of my experience with others.
While all of my favorite writers are secretly just the greatest of observers and famous for sharing their observations. I can’t help but shake the way it makes me feel like it’s not my story to tell. Like everything is a secret unless told otherwise.
As my heart has closed in many ways to that chapter of my life and as I watch myself blossom into the truest form of myself, I’m able to see the reasons for our ending. I wasn’t always.
And, as my heart pounds at the understanding of what love could have been all along, I’m awakened in a new way.
I have a friend who I often feel is talking me off of the ledge of breaking my own heart. The other day we spoke of trust. She reminded me that it’s built day after day of choosing each other. That’s what creates an environment of security.
I get impatient with myself for not being perfect.
I get impatient with the process for not being as simple as I’d like.
I spoke with someone recently of their desire to experience all of their feelings. To fully process them.
To not use coping mechanisms to navigate their complexity and depths.
It’s a good reminder for me to do the same.
To let myself feel all of the good fully as well as all of the parts that feel too hard.
Just feel them.
Just allow myself to be a part of the human experience.
It’s the depths that I crave in other people.
I want to dive head first into their hearts.
So what keeps me from doing the same with myself?
I feel heavy handed with my love lately.
I want to engulf the people in my life with my tenderness and shine the brightest most beautiful mirrored version of themselves back at them.
This scares me.
I guess it makes me feel vulnerable.
Like I’m standing in the middle of a battle field with my arms wide open waiting for the arrows of rejection to pierce my chest.
But, what I must remember, what I think we all have to remember, is that we’re everything at once.
We are heartache and we are joys.
We are always in process and any amount of love given is worth it and any amount of pain felt is worth it too.
Sometimes, I can feel myself breaking.
My heart can feel like paper being slowly torn.
But, what I’ve learned through my time on this earth is that it’s only a matter of time before we add some water and glue to the piles of my torn paper heart and it’s molded into something a little less whole, but, infinitely more beautiful.