I remember when healing was hard. It came in waves that crashed on my soul and ripped it to shreds, it knocked the breath right out of me, salty tears pouring from my eyes. I remember what it was to feel the void. Anyone who has felt great loss has felt this void. This sinking, gaping, unholy, terrifying and seemingly unshakeable pit. In grief like this there is no comfort.
I know how healing comes in waves. Gentle lapping on my heart, moonlight reflected on calm shores, so still you can see the stars in the inky black abyss. So many stars, seemingly more light than dark spaces that slowly take over the furthest reaches of my heart. The tides that guide each wave home, right where it was meant to be. That is now how I hope you think of me.
Through all of these waves, these tidal doings and undoings, these erosions and rebirths we find ourselves. Not unmoored. In synchronistic rhythm to the beating heart of the universe. Each crash an exhale, each retreat an inhale. The pumping, undulating mother whose depths smash us and catch us and make us whole again. We return to ourselves in waves.