The Wilderness of Farewells
"I've come to realize goodbye
isn't an event or moment
captured in time.
It's a gradient evolution,
an inauspicious climb,
the shifting altitude of entering a new state
where love and loss coexist."
There are days, at least in my own little world, where the reality of transitioning hits me. Not like it's news to me, all these changes (living at home, figuring out my career, earning these dastardly LPC intern hours, starting a new service team at church, figuring out my New Year's Resolutions and goals, etc). None of these realities is "new" to me, or a surprise... I guess it's just the tide of being a human with emotions. My feelings are catching up to my brain, and demanding some of my attention.
I know my life isn't "difficult" by means of comparing it to the suffering of others. That's not what this is about. All I'm saying here is that the silence which follows the question, "What's next?" makes me simultaneously anxious and deflated. It's easy to get stuck in the past, or hooked on the relative and subjective promise of the future. The work and the freedom is in that simple state of the "right now." Easier said than done.
Transitioning begs me to reflect on the past, and to move ahead toward the future. Transition has very little respect for the presence. At least, that's what it wants me to think. It's a real shame, though, since this kind of transition (vacillating between nostalgia, grief, hope, despair, planning, pitying, etc) does very little in the realm of actually providing closure (that elusive thing I hear so many people touting as the gold medal of goodbyes). Where did we even get the idea of closure? Is closure even possible? Isn't believing in closure kind of like believing in Santa Clause? Both are equally magical, and less likely to be held as true the older you get, I think... maybe I'm being a bit harsh here. I don't really mean to be. I'm just wondering if maybe changes are less about getting closure and more about something else. For example, what am I even asking for if/when I ask for closure? For me, I'm mainly asking for peace. I want my mind to stop playing the scenes over and over in my head. I want the intellectual and analytical freedom to think about something else. I want the emotional flexibility to open my heart to other people. I want the resilience to hope in the "rightness" of everything that's happened and dispel those nagging feeling of doubt. Closure, for me, is like asking for stillness of the soul. Rest.
I've never been good at resting. Not physically, nor otherwise. My physical sleeping habits are actually quite meta, overlaying my mental and emotional resting habits impeccably. It's hard for me to fall asleep. I sometimes have to tell myself that I'm "just taking a nap," or I have to change the direction my head is facing on the bed, just to try and throw off the negative sleep routine I tend to get into (lie in bed, pull up covers, start asking existential questions, anxiously think about all the questions I don't have answers for). I also find it really difficult to fall asleep with any outside light / sound coming in from the outside world, but I can't listen to music either. I'm afraid of the alarm clock waking me up, so I don't like falling asleep when I have to set an alarm (which, news flash adults, is most days of the week). It's only when I relax that some of my deepest questions, fears, and anxieties have the permission to come flooding out, and they're quite formidable and difficult to stop.
I think you get the point here. I have layers of fatigue that can quickly get out of hand on a physical and emotional level.
Closure means rest.
Goodbye means goodnight.
And, then, I realized, goodbye is not an event. Closure is not an event. Closure as a conversation, a single moment in time that grants you the peace of mind you're looking for... well, that's the Santa Claus thing... it's doesn't exist, but it's kind of magical to think about.
I think a lot of things promoted as events are really more like gradients (like the poem says at the beginning). Forgiveness, becoming an adult, learning a lesson, loving yourself, loving others, believing, hope, letting go.
All of these things happen in a moment, but not ONE moment. A collection of moments that work together over time as a montage that brings them closer and closer to reality. I can't tell you the moment I learned how to ride a bike, but I remember (symbolically) that I fell down a lot, and I kept having to pedal and balance until it became natural and instinctive. I can't tell you the moment I got closure (not sure I have) but I can remember (symbolically of course) all the times I wanted to text and didn't, all the times I wanted to call and didn't, all the times I wanted to go back and didn't... until the way back started to lose its shine, and the way forward started to take shape.
And in that, it's actually not like learning to ride a bike. It's not natural. It's not instinctual. It's still awkward and hard and clunky, and sometimes it doesn't feel right. But it's just another moment in time. It's just another part of the goodbye. It's just part of the process. Not good. Not bad. Just is.
It's moments like these I'm grateful to remember I'm not alone. It's actually a goal of mine this month to intentionally pray "to feel loved." I was listening to a sermon last night that really helped remind me of this very thing. Jesus loves me. And that's no trite thing. It's enough. It's extravagant. It's life-altering. It's energizing. When my emotions start catching up to my brain, I can fall on my face and pray, like Jesus, for God to "take this cup from me" if there's any other way of accomplishing His will, and then I can check in with my community, and then pray again, and again, until my prayer begins to change, and my heart begins to accept what my brain already knows: change is coming. Change is here. Goodbyes are inevitable. Hellos are too. My will comes second to Jesus'. He loves me.
...
isn't an event or moment
captured in time.
It's a gradient evolution,
an inauspicious climb,
the shifting altitude of entering a new state
where love and loss coexist."
There are days, at least in my own little world, where the reality of transitioning hits me. Not like it's news to me, all these changes (living at home, figuring out my career, earning these dastardly LPC intern hours, starting a new service team at church, figuring out my New Year's Resolutions and goals, etc). None of these realities is "new" to me, or a surprise... I guess it's just the tide of being a human with emotions. My feelings are catching up to my brain, and demanding some of my attention.
I know my life isn't "difficult" by means of comparing it to the suffering of others. That's not what this is about. All I'm saying here is that the silence which follows the question, "What's next?" makes me simultaneously anxious and deflated. It's easy to get stuck in the past, or hooked on the relative and subjective promise of the future. The work and the freedom is in that simple state of the "right now." Easier said than done.
Transitioning begs me to reflect on the past, and to move ahead toward the future. Transition has very little respect for the presence. At least, that's what it wants me to think. It's a real shame, though, since this kind of transition (vacillating between nostalgia, grief, hope, despair, planning, pitying, etc) does very little in the realm of actually providing closure (that elusive thing I hear so many people touting as the gold medal of goodbyes). Where did we even get the idea of closure? Is closure even possible? Isn't believing in closure kind of like believing in Santa Clause? Both are equally magical, and less likely to be held as true the older you get, I think... maybe I'm being a bit harsh here. I don't really mean to be. I'm just wondering if maybe changes are less about getting closure and more about something else. For example, what am I even asking for if/when I ask for closure? For me, I'm mainly asking for peace. I want my mind to stop playing the scenes over and over in my head. I want the intellectual and analytical freedom to think about something else. I want the emotional flexibility to open my heart to other people. I want the resilience to hope in the "rightness" of everything that's happened and dispel those nagging feeling of doubt. Closure, for me, is like asking for stillness of the soul. Rest.
I've never been good at resting. Not physically, nor otherwise. My physical sleeping habits are actually quite meta, overlaying my mental and emotional resting habits impeccably. It's hard for me to fall asleep. I sometimes have to tell myself that I'm "just taking a nap," or I have to change the direction my head is facing on the bed, just to try and throw off the negative sleep routine I tend to get into (lie in bed, pull up covers, start asking existential questions, anxiously think about all the questions I don't have answers for). I also find it really difficult to fall asleep with any outside light / sound coming in from the outside world, but I can't listen to music either. I'm afraid of the alarm clock waking me up, so I don't like falling asleep when I have to set an alarm (which, news flash adults, is most days of the week). It's only when I relax that some of my deepest questions, fears, and anxieties have the permission to come flooding out, and they're quite formidable and difficult to stop.
I think you get the point here. I have layers of fatigue that can quickly get out of hand on a physical and emotional level.
Closure means rest.
Goodbye means goodnight.
And, then, I realized, goodbye is not an event. Closure is not an event. Closure as a conversation, a single moment in time that grants you the peace of mind you're looking for... well, that's the Santa Claus thing... it's doesn't exist, but it's kind of magical to think about.
I think a lot of things promoted as events are really more like gradients (like the poem says at the beginning). Forgiveness, becoming an adult, learning a lesson, loving yourself, loving others, believing, hope, letting go.
All of these things happen in a moment, but not ONE moment. A collection of moments that work together over time as a montage that brings them closer and closer to reality. I can't tell you the moment I learned how to ride a bike, but I remember (symbolically) that I fell down a lot, and I kept having to pedal and balance until it became natural and instinctive. I can't tell you the moment I got closure (not sure I have) but I can remember (symbolically of course) all the times I wanted to text and didn't, all the times I wanted to call and didn't, all the times I wanted to go back and didn't... until the way back started to lose its shine, and the way forward started to take shape.
And in that, it's actually not like learning to ride a bike. It's not natural. It's not instinctual. It's still awkward and hard and clunky, and sometimes it doesn't feel right. But it's just another moment in time. It's just another part of the goodbye. It's just part of the process. Not good. Not bad. Just is.
It's moments like these I'm grateful to remember I'm not alone. It's actually a goal of mine this month to intentionally pray "to feel loved." I was listening to a sermon last night that really helped remind me of this very thing. Jesus loves me. And that's no trite thing. It's enough. It's extravagant. It's life-altering. It's energizing. When my emotions start catching up to my brain, I can fall on my face and pray, like Jesus, for God to "take this cup from me" if there's any other way of accomplishing His will, and then I can check in with my community, and then pray again, and again, until my prayer begins to change, and my heart begins to accept what my brain already knows: change is coming. Change is here. Goodbyes are inevitable. Hellos are too. My will comes second to Jesus'. He loves me.
...
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