A moment for day 11

Today was a slow day. I woke up at 7:30, which is the latest I have woken up on the road so far. I made my tea and continued to read the book that Fran gave me. I finished it before noon and was absolutely wrecked by it, in a beautiful way. I felt so grateful for all that I have in my life, but also so lonely. I was finally able to put an emotional title to what I had been feeling for the last day and a half.

I cried for a long time. Sitting on my yoga mat, talking to the trees. Asking for confirmation that I was doing the right thing, that I could do this at all. Sobbing to the sound of the leaves rustling, I threw myself back to lie down with the dirt. I felt like I couldn’t wait the 13 days it would take for me to see Lizzy and then 11 days after that to make it home. Lonely, but not alone. I realized that being lonely means that you are the opposite of alone. That ache in your chest is as strong as your connection to someone else. If you didn’t have impactful relationships, then there would be nothing to miss, nothing to cause the loneliness. So you long for people that matter, for people who have a piece of your heart. You cry because they matter beyond the measure of what words can describe. In this moment of allowing my interpretation of the emotions to shift, I felt my breathing settle into a steadier rhythm. I still felt lonely and wished I could see my friends, but I also knew that I could survive this feeling. After my tears had dried onto my cheeks, I opened my eyes. I was met with this sight.

The sun kept slipping behind the clouds rushing past. It’s light never dimming, but the warmth evaporating from my skin. Feeling the fleeting heat come and then dissipate reminded me of something I always considered a superpower as a little kid. I can make myself feel warm. Standing out on the ski slopes wishing I had chosen mittens instead of gloves, I could close my eyes and imagine the sun. With a high UV index, I could imagine the feeling of my skin beginning to warm and the brightness that you can still see behind closed eyes. I could imagine that heat reaching down from my arms and legs to the tips of my toes and fingers and finally reaching my nose. I was so good at imagining this, that when I returned to the brisk winter wind, I felt genuinely warm. I can still do this today, but believe it is more the power of an intense imagination and practice, than a magical superpower. Even in the absence of something, I have such a vivid memory that I can physically feel the repercussions of remembering.

One of the milestones for childhood development is object permanence. The notion that your mother still exists even when you can’t see her. The notion that the sun’s warmth will return even when it is nighttime. I wonder if there is such a thing as emotional permanence. The notion that even when you are sad, you know you will feel joy again. My loneliness felt like it had swallowed the whole world. I felt as though I would never again know the feeling of being with people who matter to me. I elevated the physical significance of these relationships so high, that the absence of them left me reeling. It’s not that the physical nature of all these relationships isn’t important, but my lack of awareness hindered me from appreciating all the other facets of my friendships. Maybe emotional permanence is the understanding that this sense of connection exists even when not physically represented. We may be lonely, but never alone.