This was written in chalk on the sidewalk in front of the post office this week. It almost made me cry.
Lately I’ve been noticing the duality of most experiences, how something can be simultaneously painful and perfect. A thing is perfect simply because it IS. It exists, and therefore is, by definition, perfect. Pain…well, I don’t have to explain that to anyone.
“Everything is unfolding as it should” is one of those New Age slogans I believe as truth, a mantra. Often, when I think I can’t take anymore, I say it quietly to myself and it helps. It’s just a gentle reminder of how little in life is under my control. It rolls more easily off the tongue and wallops a slightly softer punch somehow than “It’s not meant to be.” Though equally true, that adage just sounds negative and defeated to me.
I often wonder what Silky had to support her during the tough times. Three divorces and a widowhood is hardly a cakewalk, even when you’re wearing pricey designer shoes. Then, on top of that, she buried both her parents, her best friend and her young nephew, who was like a son. And she was never able to have children when she desperately wanted them. And that’s just the personal. She also saw two World Wars, the Depression and the devastation of London—all of it tough stuff. She didn’t strike me as a terribly spiritual or religious person, so what did she have to give her strength and see her through? She must’ve had some sort of faith. Or fucking awesome girlfriends.
So many aspects of my life are challenging at present. So much of my experience is laced with pain and sadness. And it sucks. But it’s also perfect because it will lead me to where I need to be. The delicate unfolding of my evolution is a constant process. Sometimes it’s all I can do to hold on, but the pain and discomfort also show me that I’m alive. And here I am.