The Illusion of "Brokenness"

I wrote this 13 months ago but I've been busy.  Before I write the blog I came here to write, I'm going to post it.  If you've read some of my older blogs, you know I believe that the white space is the art in a piece.  This one is unfinished but it talks about what I was learning, thinking and using to grow, a year ago last May . . . .

Can't kayak this morning - so I've been thinking (and visiting with a friend) about how each of us is "broken."   I know that the struggles of my life have caused me to have triggers.  Triggers can be worked on, worked out and improved with work.  Think Therapy!

Although we can work on the way we are broken, the triggers will continue to affect us, create opportunities to learn about ourselves and others.  Maybe the triggers are a gift.  They are painful, awful things.  I still don't walk to the mailbox to get my mail.  My fella handles that for me.  There are many things he handles for me and many I handle for him.  We each have Stuff we are carrying.

One of my friends recently said that marriage is that "you team up against the world."  So, those things we choose to handle for one another are gifts.  It doesn't mean we can't each handle our own Stuff.  It means we love each other enough to pinch hit in the tough times.

When I was meeting men, while searching for my love, I met many men who had big Stuff.  Carrying big stuff is a part of life.  Dealing with big stuff is a part of life.  Finding someone whose stuff you can deal with is the key.

One of my friends described the dating sites as "the island of mistfit toys."  I think that's about right.  On the other hand, I've always felt that the key in any friendship is to be in it.  I do think many friendships have a natural trajectory.  Someone I feel very close to may need to move on.  I may choose to not be involved in their lives.  There is an arc to many relationships.

Pain is Relative

It's something I've been saying for years.  I know I've heard others say it but I discovered it as a truth to describe the fact that empathy does not capture another's experience.  This came to me shortly after my mother died.  Actually, it may have been the year after.  That first year was a blur of pain and sadness.

I started saying it because it didn't take me long, especially in relation to the people I met in the Hospice grief support group that I attended, to realize that EVERY experience with grief is different.  You could put two people in exactly the same series of experiences and because each of us has such a different set of tools, emotional vulnerability and access to support, there is just no way to compare the pain.

I stopped saying things like, "I understand because . . . (fill in my life altering painful experience here)."  I started stopping at, "I'm so sorry for your loss," and then trying to listen and really hear and respond to the other's expression of pain.

Giving up the concept that there needs to be comparison or understanding to sit with anyone, in that moment, and just share in their pain has led to some really loving and intense moments with people I will never really know.

It also gave me permission to feel the grief I need to feel.  Surviving those trials by fire, concentrating on the fierce love that gives me those connections.  That's been worth the pain.

Images are from Artprize 2013 exhibition will credit with artists name as soon as I can locate it.