Anyone who has gone through divorce knows that the soul-rent of it all will never be fully mended. Places of vulnerability are pushed into harsh of day, and everything taken as given is suddenly up for grabs. Place and people become overlaid with supposed judgement, memory, loss, and a sense that reclamation may perhaps never be. And it never is, at least in the uncomplicated ways of the past.
Healing, when it happens, is amazing grace.
I have been held by a powerful force throughout my life: a rollicking group of college friends with whom I made music and kin and life.
One of “our” babies got married last month, and I was asked to officiate. The clan gathered, including my three children, my husband, and folk who had known me as the wife of a beloved other. I was anxious, and worried, and hope filled. After setting out on my own, after long spans of silence filled with my own imaginings of outcast status, we gathered.
And we laughed. And we sang. And we danced. And we loved.
Watching my children cavort in the power of the zany love was like being able to watch my own heart as it was lapping up the grace.
You can be home again; Home in the company of people who are walking stories of your unfolding: college exploits, new babies, trips taken, harmonies shared, and love alive and real in the not-yet to come.
Home is good.