Holga self portrait for SPC
The problem with spending a few days out of your normal routine is that when you return you want that routine, the one that has held you afloat for so long, to be changed. It doesn’t fit like it did just a few day ago.
We had a lovely time, the five of us, reading and cooking, chatting and playing games. The weather was rainy and grey and kept us inside our beautifully converted cottage in the middle of a forest, but we didn’t mind. There was sewing and making and decisions about where to have dinner to be made.
Yet away from the distractions of email, internet, television and phones, I found myself feeling unanchored and uneasy, and this manifested in a way it hasn’t for quite some time: hot, wet, self-piteous tears, tears that refused to stop.
I’ve become very adept at pushing emotions away. The tears that fell had been building, and as soon as I stopped running, they caught up with me. I miss him, that doesn’t stop – may never stop – but there is something growing that is starting to eclipse the missing of my love…
It’s the missing of love, the missing of intimacy.
And it took a morning of tears and my sister’s comforting hugs and understanding words to really let the penny drop. The grief falls away like a dead leaf from a branch and in its place is the shoot of something new, some new potential happiness that is waiting to be nurtured, that wants to be given a chance despite me doing everything I can to stop it.
I don’t know what to do with this realisation, but now I’ve acknowledged it it’s floating around me, making my skin itch, making my muscles ache. How do you get back on the horse after something like this?