I had a horrible dream last night. I had a horrible dream that no one believed me. That something awful was happening, again and again, and I was unbelievable.
Grief is a hellcat. Love is a wildfire. Anything could be real if you let it. Remember being young? When did we learn to cast doubt? When did we learn to be afraid of the dark? We were knit in the dark. Composed.
To cast doubt is human. To be suspect is only natural. We long to guard our hearts in the same way we long to be open and known. I wonder now if doubt is not a sister to hope, a harbinger of your vulnerabilities, the town crier misinterpreting the arrival of a stranger.
We hope, despite. At the movies, when we know she’s going to die, or he’s going to leave, or they’ll lose the baby, we hold hope tight to our chest and in doing so, doubt the inevitable. We know the best plot lines. We doubt they could be ours. Hope is careless, reckless, wild, and full of error. Hope is messy potential energy we occasionally let snowball our lives out of our slippery grip.
I had a horrible dream last night. I let this dream linger over my head. I’m so afraid of hope. I’m so afraid.
Hope and doubt are wrestling in me. I can be no less afraid and no less joyful in equal parts. I deeply want to believe in this good. I want to use the word trust, which I never do. My chest might explode, sending pieces of me across space in big meaty chunks, confirming once and for all that I was real and combustible.
When someone shows you who they are, believe them.
When they keep showing you who they are, hold them.
When they give the gift of their body, their mind, their heart, and the spaces between their toes, memorize them like a benediction.
And when they ask to see who you are, unravel.
Hold yourself up, use your spine, but open your chest. Open your pelvis. Welcome the heat and the fear.
I’m trying to tell you that perhaps I am the unbelievable thing, casting my shadows as truths instead of listening to what’s honest.
Today, I tried to watch a TV show that forced me to confront missing Aunt Becky.
I never got to say good bye. I never got to and I never took that opportunity. I was selfish and hopeful and thought she’d make it until I got there. Death doesn’t wait. Death doesn’t, but grief does. Grief creeps up behind you and holds its breath until it captures yours too, like a cat leeching from the lungs of a newborn.
Grief is a hellcat. Love is a wild fire. Anything could be real if you let it. I’ve always believed in magic, the unbelievable thing.
I’ve been running so hot lately.
I love you. I miss you. I hope to see you soon.