Honest grief, the only real kind.
When anger and shame and hope for something else are all stripped away, and you see the thing you were afraid of, and it isn’t ugly or too heavy or too large. It’s the Truth. It’s your own reflection. It’s a long exhale after trying to pretend you weren’t holding your breath, panting like a scared animal overrun with instinct, desperate to keep a step ahead of death.
Stop, and feel it all:
In sadness comes space.
When you finally stop and turn around and see what has been following you, reaching for your hand: here is compassion and company, here stillness, and, in the way the air feels sweet after the shocking transition from hot sauna to frigid lake, the Self: the full inhabitation of this moment.
When we don’t fear grief, there’s nowhere else we have to go to be at home.