I haven't felt like myself since Kozo died.
I wish this wasn't true. He wouldn't want that. I wish I was better at grief. I've had so much practice, and yet, here I sit:
dimmed.
At his memorial, I cried through my reading. I really thought I could make it all the way through, but I was talking about emptiness and fullness, and how life is both at the same time, and I could suddenly feel both at the same time, and I became the ocean he so loved.
The month since has been full and empty.
In many ways, I feel like a star. In many ways, I feel like a star with its eyes closed. No, a star with its heart closed.
A heart with its stars off.
The dark is darker, and the daylight doesn't notice.
In that unaffected heart-light, all my gratitudes bloom from the ground like sunflowers, like shining ground-stars. The air is thick with it.
How did a dinosaur like me get to be so lucky?
My communities lift me up again and again and again.
When I got the first paycheck from my job, I felt the realness of this new stage of my life. It's almost like I won't drop this career down a flight of stairs. It's almost like I can just let it be something beautiful.
It's almost like I might be able to not drop myself down a flight of stairs again.
It's almost like I can stay standing. Stay free. Stay living.
Stay.
There's so much joy in that, but I have trouble writing about it right now. I can't quite hear myself the same way as usual.
My grief feels like humming at a concert. I can feel it vibrating from me even as the chorus around me sings the air to all new highs.
Things are good, my best beloveds.
I'm shining. I'm shining.
I'm shining as much as possible for someone whose heart-star is a little dimmed.
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Here's some awesome posts from other Peppers today for #PepperDay. Please visit at least one!
