of Being

Is this what it is to be alive? she asks, in a steady stream of questions against the sunny afternoon. Sometimes it feels like Life is just a succession of losses. How can one ever bear all this sorrow? My answers all grew into empty-handed platitudes, because the truth is I don’t know.

I sat on the patio again later, staring at the brilliant night sky and breathing myself back into being. Just as I began to speak with the universe, to remind us both that we were okay, a small star streaked across the darkness. And another. And another. It’s a strange thing to feel so utterly small and yet so immensely alive all at once.

Life is sad, and terrible, and breaks you when you are down, without reprieve. But the fact that you are alive is an entire miracle all on its own, and every good step you take beyond that is a gift you give yourself. The losses, they add up, they line your bedside and sit on your shoulder, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. Merely a fragment of who you are. You carry them with you, yes.

But how else would you know where you wanted to go?