The Sadness of Goodbye(s)

It was my first overnight hang/vacation with a friend in 16 months. The notorious 16 months from when things closed down to when they again opened. The night before we would actually part ways, we said goodbyes. (Yes, plural, because it's always a process, with varying steps, and certain steps that need to be repeated, before the goodbye is official and finalized - especially if at least one of the involved persons resides in LA).

Uncertain whether or not we would see each other in the morning prior to our long individual drives to our homes and due to her work-inspired early departure, she began the goodbyes the night before. What had been a delightful, restful couple days connecting to the earth and to people, suddenly became blackened by an overwhelming sadness. I could feel the darkness of the surrounding forest press in on me threatening the comfort of our wood fire, which I knew would not last for long, let alone the night. It felt like we were losing the battle. Loneliness would win. Tomorrow I would be alone. All day I would be alone. Again, alone. The darkness would win.

My body constricted. My breath became strained, shallow, and resided high in my chest. My arms and legs were wrapped tight around themselves and in around me as I took in the words of warm sentiment from my dear friend across the campfire. Her words reach me, only to immediately fall away. My walls of fear were rising up, evoking the sense that I wouldn't recover from this, that it would always be this way, that the isolation is truer than the companionship. I was in the vice grip of panic from which there is no return.

But then for some reason I looked up directly overhead. Although the forest, in contrast to the fire, was pitch black, when I saw the patches of night sky through the towering redwoods' branches, I could see that it was not completely dark. I was reminded and could sense that it wouldn't always be this dark. This acknowledgement transmitted to my physical being and I could sense my muscles relaxing and my breath deepening.

My breath, however, wasn't even. It was halting - the halting that accompanies tears. Underneath the tension was emotion - emotion that I felt less like I needed to fear, less like I needed to hide. It was okay to let my sadness be seen, even on such a joyous occasion as a holiday with a dear friend.

See you laters can be sad and often are. I didn't need to pretend that this trip wasn't significant to me. I didn't need to not be sad. I needed to be me. I gave myself fully to crying. My shoulders joined in and quaked up and down. All I could manage to say outloud was: "I feel sad." And that was enough. The physicality was enough. I didn't have to explain or explore. It was enough to feel.

After standing to use tissue to vacate my now full sinuses, we embraced. I full-on sobbed, held her, and let myself be held - for a long time. I let myself not worry about how long the embrace lasted. It was revealing something in me. I was healing something in me. I didn't want to cut it off prematurely.

Reliving this one week later in order to write this, again brought tears to my eyes and the accompanying sniffles. This sadness and these tears won't be a one and done. They will be however frequent and long they need to be. I will get what I need, when I need it. There is enough. There is enough for me to be sad, to grieve, and to feel lonely.

The next day I was kind to myself and chose spaciousness. I didn't rush off. I remembered the invitation that is ever-present. There is always an invitation to quiet myself, to listen, to abide, to participate. I paused, listened and believed that things would unfold today as they should and that I should be open to the unfolding beauty of the day. My morning was accompanied by a profound tenderness in me which felt like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. When spoke to my husband, who was separated from me for a month by work, I didn't have words to tell my husband of my sadness when he asked. It was too acute, too painful.

But here we are. Some words are coming. What a gift to process in writing. It is often hard for me to sit down to do this "work," but there is a reward in it for me. I hope there is some sort of offering for you too.

In closing, I would be remiss If I failed to mentioned what awe-invoking beauty I beheld driving down "The One" on the California Coast. It took my breath away again and again in all its ecstatic splendor. The sadness gave way to play and presence as I maneuvered about to get a gorgeous photograph of each unfolding view and scene, as I interacted gleefully with people I encountered on the drive, as I climbed a tree, and balanced like a gymnast on a guardrail overlooking the ocean.

It's not that the blessing isn't there. It's that we often miss it.

May you see the blessing.

-Elle