preamble.
Miss them and they’re gone.
We are often told to seize our moments, and with every passing hour of every day, live each of our days as if it were our very last on this earth. To exude a belief and positivity that every moment holds its weight in divine purpose and unique meaning. that opportunities past, were doors closed on paths that were never meant for us to tread on. While perhaps that remains true, I have found myself a little more, no perhaps a lot more, caught up in moments and spaces that I’ve lost. Deep and intimate connections with specific and unique individuals that I will likely never have again - not necessarily in a way where I would wish to return and have those moments again, but that it is genuinely okay to miss the people we once loved, and to perhaps understand, that their purpose was to always bring out the very best of our bleed. In every story of regret, comes a lesson in vulnerable joy; an emotion and experience we are often so afraid to embrace that comes on the other side of grief and loss. The moments where we had always wished we had chosen courage instead of comfort, the difficult instead of easy; the uncertain instead of certain.
Life truly can be complicated, but in a way, the nature of its complication reflects our own desire to keep our wires from crossing with ourselves and each other. We are all becoming, and perhaps by nature in understanding that we are doing the very best we can, has allowed us to acknowledge that sometimes, our limit and finite capacity is the best we can afford. We can be such willed and desired masters of our fates that it becomes easy to lose sight of the higher calling and purpose whose hands weave and direct our steps. The pandemic has taught me that I for one engage with delayed grief more than I would like to admit. Yet delayed grief is better than unactioned grief.
As summer swings into autumn, and the seasons shift itself to what has become essentially the start of a new year for me, I find myself recalling my failed spaces, perhaps as a reminder to my head and heart, of the tender spaces I have grown to nurture; the gardens that were never mine to upkeep. That while we are all responsible for perhaps the little seeds planted in the lives of others, it is not our will or purpose to force its divine hand in growth. Perhaps it is time I allow myself to tell these stories. To let go of the many pieces of the puzzle I no longer wish to complete. An exercise to challenge myself in holding honour where honour is due, and to keep courage with the hope that it will lead to an opportunity of growth and understanding. To find something more within the pieces that continue to stay, and perhaps allow the things that don’t to run its quiet natural course.