Endings

A year and a half ago I joined seven other women to explore a year-long curriculum developed by Brené Brown. We dove in with enthusiasm and curiosity, finding Brown’s questions useful. At the end of each monthly meeting we would link hands and blow out a candle. However by the seventh month we began to rebel against the curriculum. We created our own questions and listened attentively to each other. Gradually the group dwindled to six. Four. Last night we thanked each other, blew out the candle for the last time, and I took a picture to send to the missing members of the group.

When I blow out a candle, grief and relief arise together. This particular extinguished candle is a little death (we all live in Portland, we can meet individually if we wish), but it reminds me of impermanence. The jobs I left, the colleagues I never saw again. Plans I made that came to nothing. Friendships that drifted apart. Divorces. The deaths of loved ones after long and painful illnesses or after slow disintegration. Something once cherished becomes difficult; something difficult comes to an end. There is natural perfection in endings, and there is insecurity.

I soothe myself with science: for a star to be born, a gaseous nebula must collapse. Not very soothing, really. If that could end, so can this. Could I have done something more? Did I end it too soon? Should I have held on? Did I hold on too long? If I could outgrow that love, then my current love can outgrow me. A tightness gathers in the muscles of my chest. I breathe into the tightness, hold it. Exhale.

I call on curiosity to save me again, as she has done so often. What will this next passage be like? What's ahead? What will fill the emptiness left by the love that ended? How will I navigate this next bit? Where will I find support? Who will appear, a surprise and a revelation? What will make me laugh? Whose hand will reach out for touch, and finding mine, take hold?