Heart Breaking Open

A week later, on May 30, I hit another wall of grief. I woke up, rolled out of bed, and took a walk with my dog and husband. I arrived home afterwards, expecting to do my yoga and breathing practice, but felt blocked. Like last week, I felt achy and low energy, but this time I was aware it wasn’t physical. The wall I was up against seemed to exist in some higher plane, even beyond the emotional.

Since my morning practice wasn’t happening, I decided to take a nap. I woke up a little clearer. I was grieving something bigger, much bigger, than my personal sphere. My mind went to the current state of affairs in the world: We’re still mostly in lock down, anti-lockdown protests are happening around the world, and riots have recently broke out in major US cities over the death of George Floyd. His story reminds me to honor him and other African Americans in the news recently—Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and Dreasjon “Sean” Reed. The reported Covid-19 cases in the US have reached 1.8 million with 100,500 deaths, and worldwide have reached 5.8 million with over 360,000 deaths.

Yes, there’s lots to grieve in the world. 360,000 deaths.

Woa. So much to grieve. George Floyd.

I’ve learned my daughter is at the protests in Boston over his death, joining millions all over the world. My heart feels as if it’s breaking apart trying to hold all of this. I let it.

And still the grief was pointing me to look even deeper. I then remember the dream I had during my nap. I dreamt about the last episode of Fleabag. As soon as I remembered, my energetic wall turned into a portal and I fell into the rabbit hole. I have to take a pause here to state how vulnerable I feel to share all this as I struggle with how to express it, and to give a spoiler alert for those who haven’t yet seen the show.

The final episodes of this British comedy-drama, Fleabag, beautifully portray a potent love story between the female lead, Fleabag, and a priest. The entire show, both seasons, was brilliantly done. The last couple of episodes stirred a lot within me. Here’s the thing, I identify with the priest.

People of all classes are now in the same shed of buying this order viagra online.

To explain why, let me give you a little of my back story. I started writing poetry shortly after I learned to write. My third grade teacher published in our town newspaper the many poems I gave her throughout the year except one. A few years later, some of my poetry took on a new tone as expressions of love. I remember wondering at age 12 and over the ensuing years if I was writing to a future lover or the Beloved, if my love poems were romantic or devotional.

Fast forward to the times I’d fallen in love and been flooded with feelings of elation, giddiness, passion, and a sense my feet weren’t touching the earth. I had the realization, even back then, the purpose of these encounters was less about two humans having a love affair and more about reminding me of who I was and from where I came. Then there were the periods of intense longing, heartache, and grief that seem to be brought on a lover’s absence, their departure, or by life circumstances keeping us apart. The longing and heartache hurt so deeply; it broke open my heart. Although quite challenging to admit at the time, my longing was really for the divine.

This grief is familiar. Triggered by a show, of all things.

This grief, there long before the show brought it to my attention, was brought about from forgetting. I’ve been pining for the divine for most of my life. But, unlike the priest in the show, I don’t have to choose between my human beloved and the divine, who he referred to as God. Although, I sometimes forget and think I do.

I am here to love both the formless and the embodied divine, the transcendent and the immanent God.

In the case of humans, my task is to see past the human form to their divinity—simple, but never easy. In loving the world, I struggle to figure out how to do so without getting caught up in the energy of separation in all its various manifestations, usually shrouded in drama and pain. The secret I’ve found is to look upon and see past all of that to the heaven already here. The toughest part is to keep my heart tender and open in the face of all the pain and divisiveness. Even more challenging is to allow the world to break my heart. My impulse, for sure, is to turn away and harden my heart.  

The grief is brought about from forgetting. I get caught up in the world, in personal and collective dramas, and in thinking there is some sort of success I need to achieve in life, and I forget about God. I forget who I am. I forget to look into my neighbors’ eyes, the windows to their soul.

I forget that I came here to love. Period.