Occasionally when I am having difficulty with the foggy human-ness of life and can't see the rocks well enough to navigate safely to shore, the sailor in my heart turns the ship to the open sea. The wind rushes at my face reminding me to breathe, the salty spray mingles with my tears and I remember to look up and out, at the beauty that cradles my imagined smallness. For an instant, I grow wings and the world smiles with abandon through my eyes. For an instant I am not Angelina, beset with emotions and a tangle of thoughts, desires and limitations, instead, I am the wild dance of life breathing life and all the space in between. In that moment I am home. My beautiful younger brother and kindred soul, Danny, once described this as being a sailor. A 'sailor' is something bigger than someone who sets out on a literal boat, it is a way of inhabiting the shifting sea of life while embracing a horizon wide with possibility. I like that. The next few posts are devoted to the sights along the way.
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
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