Going at the Speed of Trust
on the wild waves of grief & this burning
My friends!
After multiple seasons where it felt impossible to breathe, I am grateful to find you again. To be here in words and images and feelings. We have been working hard, together and apart. I look forward to hearing about what has made you laugh, weep, and ache. Post a comment, send me an email, text using only emojis or pictures. Voicenote me a poem or a song you can’t get out of your head. Let us rejoice at the new season and honor how hard the journey has been. We made it here together. How beautiful.
I’ve made it here and this is what I am longing to share: My marriage is over.
The first thing many say to me is “Oh, I’m so sorry,” followed by “what happened?!” Oh, how I want to tell you what happened. I want to scream about it. I want to paint what happened in every color across all the walls that have held me. I want the trees and the sky and the blades of grass to touch every single detail of what unraveled. I want to plant secrets and lies in soil, watch what takes bloom through cracks in concrete. Tears of my grief become rivers and I want everyone to lap it up. Taste my longing, coat your tongue with the grit of no sleep. I want to set what was once ours on fire and ask friends to look, don’t blink, just look at what is burning.
In my grief, I built myself a sad, lonely art gallery. I’ll hold your hand as we walk through it. Here is the sculpture of static noise, a dangerous column of tinsel-like hues. The gallery card reads nothing good happens after midnight. There’s a bulletin board of fluttering sticky notes holding bold, horrible doubts and questions. Object title reads dead on the outside. We quickly walk past a dark room with a projector, the walls illuminated by a sickly glow. Film titled ask better questions. My sad lonely art gallery is full of art that documents my life from one spring to the next. And oh, how I want those hard months to be known. Ask me what happened and there’s an ocean within me ready to break in waves, ready to crash against the contours of your shore.
My marriage is over and the details matter, but sometimes it feels like it only matters to me. I’m back at what is burning. I want to crack myself open and let you peek inside at what I’ve been holding within. I don’t want to release moments one pebble at a time. I want to shovel and scoop, hollow out and let you marvel at my angry little gems. Friends and family assure me that I have the right to do and say what I want. Even my former half agrees — I bet you would too. Everyone assures me there is no wrong answer, no incorrect way to react. When I share this uncertainty, the when and why of it all, everyone often mulls over about what they would say in my situation. Those words become kindling for this burning.
After going from sharing space with someone for over ten years to suddenly not, I feel as if I am touching the fire of my youth again. Back to being just me. For so long and many times on this very substack, I have connected with my inner child. I see her clearly: thick wire frames, soft smile, overalls and a stack of books. She keeps me company and I advocate hard for her. But this summer I was greeted by an older and younger version of me. I’m seeing myself at eighteen: spitfire, passionate, flirtatious with a pile of canvases and sketchbooks. She’s unafraid, unfiltered, annoyed, and deeply feeling. When I feel the heat of my rage or spot another swell in the ocean of my grief, I think of her. How would eighteen do all this versus me at thirty-three?
And from this seat, as I pause, as I sit still, as I listen, the only thing that keeps me from lighting a match is knowing that I am going at the speed of trust. I trust that I know. And instead of being greeted in anger from my teenage self, I am surprised to find her smiling. There is fire in her eyes as she recognizes the flames within mine. She reaches out for my hand, laughter on her lips, a hint of knowing. We are one and the same. I am that fearless feeling girl. We are telling, sharing, aching, and bleeding to the beat of our own heart. We know how to live. And that’s what all this burning is for, it’s for living and seeing clearly again.
Just when I think I’m not okay, I spot a pair of googly eyes on an object. I open my notes and see a poem. I spot a robin in the grass. I continue to lean into and out of love’s embrace. I don’t know where I am going, only that I am going at the speed of trust. I trust my body. I trust my words. I trust my heart. I trust all the messages coming to me. I trust poetry and tarot cards. I trust solo dinners. I trust the sound of the ocean, the breeze in the trees. I trust the morning light. I trust the guidance of the moon. I trust the laughter barreling from someplace deep. I trust soft lips. I trust the creases around my eyes. I trust the ache in my neck. I trust dancing feet. I trust piles of words from those who held me when I didn’t trust anything at all. I trust letting go of vows. I trust we made the right decision. I trust we did this together, even if it feels like I am alone in a strange dream. I trust that something that was broken between us has suddenly become the guiding light out of a very dark room.
I hope this letter finds you going at your own speed. May it find you after shedding something you once loved, longed for even, but no longer need. May it find you in a new season where it is easier to breathe. May it find you surrounded by all the things and folks you trust, even when it is hard to do so alone. And if this letter finds you alone just know I’m right here with you. Keep looking.
With love and possibility,
Jordan
Saw my own grief here translated fiercely and sweetly—- such a way with words ! Love you darling
loving you fiercely. in awe of you at every step. chest swelling, eyes welling up, thanking every good thing we're walking in step calling back and forth to one another.