Seems like an awfully big title. Last two nights I’ve slept again, deeply, even napped at the end of long work days. In the morning I’ve woken to light and birds. I’ve been reading about Love, listening to words about god, wondering on it all, in all the forums where I live, home, day care, solitude, meeting, conversation, school, nature. It’s all around, we’re in it, is what I’m trying to understand. The now is it and within the now is the mystery we seek, connecting us to the everywhere and everyone and everything, is what I hope. Sounds bigger than it is. I have to slow down to let it in. Seems that was a process that both found me and that I’ve sought, and I’m still working at it. Waking to sunrise in the city or birdsong outside my bedroom, allowing the dreams time to shift to the daytime thoughts is one way to do it, my substitute for meditation. Quaker Meeting helps, where others sit with me in quiet, slowly begin to share what comes, marvel as the mysteries are one by one revealed and contemplated. Being with kids helps, too. Tuesday’s quote of the day, which I’ve been wondering how to write was this: Jesus’s birthday is on Christmas. The Easter Bunny’s birthday is on Easter. Halloween’s birthday is on Halloween:) Halloween is turning five!

Begin with the serious, shift to the light. State the known, follow the questions. Kids know.

I don’t really know what I’m saying here, except I’m thinking and feeling a whole lot again. I feel raw and broken open, consequence of many things, in part separating from the one I thought was holding me together and making my way again without a partner. It is an unmooring experience, unpartnering, venturing into the loss, searching for the safety net, trying again. Remaking home, remaking dreams, remaking self are life’s work made larger in moments of great loss and/or change. For me, these things take enormous energy, so much that I have learned to accept the loss of sleep, loss of appetite, loss of weight, loss of productivity and concentration and to wonder on them rather than to worry.

When I wrote to a good friend after the breakup of my marriage several years ago, she asked me how I was feeling and I said “unmoored.” To me, the experience of being unmoored was frightening, overwhelming, strange. Her reply made me reconsider. “That’s good,” is what she said, meaning, if I remember correctly, that being unmoored is the only way to find someplace new. It doesn’t make the experience of being unmoored any less intense to think of it as good, but it helps to accept the state as necessary in making great change, and to feel it as an opening to something new, rather than a release into an abyss. Unmoored implies, when I think of it right now, being adrift at sea, being bouyant, held up, as a ship floating in the water, not as a rock sinking to the bottom. In being unmoored, the experience of finding the water is key. Being held up comes in many forms, most all of them some type of love and connection, whether to the birds who come each morning to sing, or to the sun who comes each day to light the way, or to the friends or children or strangers who smile and look me in the eye, or to the inner life I discover when I slow down enough to listen.

Now it’s time to start the day. I have a sort of desperate need to write myself through these phases, but also the desperate fear that the writing is too personal, too unformed, too ambiguous to be let out. Perhaps it is. Forgive me if it’s so. I haven’t yet found another way to get the ideas out of my head and into clearer form. Enjoy the day. Live it where you are and see what you find. I’d be curious to know.

Here’s the book I’ve been reading on Love, in case you’re curious enough to read it, too.

The Art of Loving, by Eric Fromm