I am in grief, feeling a sorrow over something which has yet to be and most likely will not be. Layers are falling away, layers of hope unfulfilled. Hope that perhaps…maybe…and now will not be. Not an impossible hope. Simply a hope born from delight and joy and love, foretelling possibility.
Love is never a bad hope. No, love is a good hope because in the awareness of this hope and this love is the remembrance of life when there was neither hope nor love. Because I have lived life without the glimmer of hope or the touch of love, the appearance of hope is cause for celebration. When hope reappears dragging in my capacity for love, then all of life warms, and sun shines even on rainy days. With hope renewed within my life, I find myself returning from the dark and releasing the crusty protective shell of my heart.
The grief then which comes when renewed hope will not be bringing forward the desire of that hope—that grief is bittersweet. The presence of hope signals a renewed inner capacity. Yet there is disappointment that the desired delight is not to be. One could get lost in the loss of the desire. One could fail to see the wonder in the regaining of hope.
Yes, the pain of the loss, the true grief is hard to bear, hard to acknowledge. The retreat to sugar to sweeten the loss becomes such a strong compulsion, a seemingly non-negotiable need. I feel overcome and feelings are diverted into attaining sweet as the way to relieve grief and cover the heartbreak. Literally, the sweetness wants to brake my heart, stopping forward motion into the truth of hope seemingly defeated.
However, the presence of hope signals the deeper layers of self are no longer braked from a full life. Hope signals love and a self capable of true love. In the recognition of what is present—love!—though there is grief and disappointment—the strength of my becoming rests here and now in my ability to identify that I can and I do and I will again love. Deeply. Strongly. With all my being. Vulnerable. Complete. The love of myself is sweet.
I could choose depressive responses and lose myself in destructive disappointment, victimizing me in my unwillingness to love all of me. For that is the trained response: let self fall into the despondency of lost hope. Love myself only when someone loves me first.
However, I take delight in your presence because I allow myself to love me first. I find me. I love me. I am me.
Because hope has returned, the choice for my life is me. Instead of losing myself in grief, I stand with me and see the depths of my feelings as signs of me and the best I am. I acknowledge myself and how this recognition powers my present and gives me hope for my future. I’m on my road. I’ve reached the destination of my best me. No longer compromising me for the denial of me, I move forward fully as me to explore new roads and create new paths. Life is not over. Life is always a beginning.
I love always. I learn always. Always choosing me and the best of me.
Hope. Love. Me.