I was in love once, when I was young.

My winged-heart had cheerfully flown through a dusty trail to a little dive bar that night.

Half a gin and tonic later, a man from out of town arrived. He was wearing a trucker hat with a rainbow on it.

When he plead for me to dance, I couldn’t turn him down—not when he was wearing a bright hat like that in such a dark and mundane place (the black curls that peeked out from either side of his hat and the effervescent eyes piercing me from under the brim didn’t hurt his case any).

We danced until my ride was on the brink of turning into a pumpkin and I returned home, heart-in-hand.

The next day, I found out how much the new exotic man in my life appreciated my flying heart—I let him have it. In exchange, I was showered with candlelight, poetry and protection.

Months later, I impetuously shoved him out of my life over my own intense fear of love.

I forgot to ask for my possessions. Either that, or he failed to send them to me. Sadly, I can’t remember anymore.

Perhaps we both subconsciously knew those symbols belonged in his lap.

I couldn’t give away my heart, not the entire heart—but I could give away pieces.

At that time, I thought of my heart like a broken plate. I had a heart-shaped plate that could fly. I dropped it, it shattered. I just gave a chunk to whomever I wanted. That was the way I handled my affairs. People that I met could only have so much, because I needed to give a part to my family, some to the waterfalls I loved oh so dearly.

And the ocean—I can’t forget the ocean.

I had given my lover at least one-third of my heart. Yeah, I let him take off to some tropical island to live happily ever after with about 33 percent of my heart. I couldn’t function properly without it, without him.

My adventures no longer had a guide (I had just been starting to trust that one).

The expectation was that I wasn’t going to get my heart back until I ran into him again when we were somewhere around our 40’s, at an airport on the East Coast or in Europe.

He was going to have his hair cut differently and still be a bachelor. Instead of a trucker hat, tank top, and flip-flops, he would be wearing an expensive new suit.

That was the vision I had, at least; it gave me hope.

When we found one another, I hoped that my estranged lover would open his briefcase and take out a nice little silk bag or a wooden box where he was keeping his part of our old friend who had led me to him.

He was going to show it to me and all wholeness would be restored.

Until then, my unconditional happiness would have to wait.

Half a decade later, I called my lovers’ phone for the first time in many years; no answer. Months after that, I sent a package with a few gifts and a letter to the Honolulu address I had for him. The package ended up at my doorstep marked, “Return to Sender.” I knew then, he must have taken his law practice somewhere else in the world. I searched his name online and found him.

He had moved to a foreign island some years prior to me reaching out.

Devastatingly, he had been murdered shortly thereafter.

Until that point, I had been walking around believing in a fantasized idea of what might have been with a man I barely knew. What might someday be with a man, outside my reach. I had debilitatingly measured and compared every love that presented itself to me with the one that knocked me down. Illusions.

Love isn’t a plate. It’s a light with warm rays piercing those that come into contact with it. It can’t be broken.

The connections don’t go away.

Loving is not a matter of how much we have to lose if mistreated, but how much we have to gain by being present.

We need to show up for what’s in front of us when we have it because we might not get another chance. We should begin to understand that the only people we should be comparing our lovers, our friends, our family members or our enemies with are ourselves.

It can be painful to look into the eyes of someone who has hurt us—see the mirror. Especially, when we can turn away and live in a memory that hasn’t. Running from ourselves is what creates the illusion of brokenness in the first place. Unless you want perpetual brokenness; face the world, face your friends, face your lovers.

Then, turn inward and see the meaning in what you’re observing.

People say that living in the past leads to depression. After spending the better part of my 20’s wrapped up in it; I know that to be true. Spinning in a fantasy of what might’ve been, I lived the prime of my life distracted, sad and comparing each new experience—each new relationship—to a vanishing treasure. Each disappointment became the fault of something or someone outside myself while my happiness rested in the hands of someone I no longer knew.

There never was a lover outside of me, causing my happiness.

Every face that I saw was a reflection of myself. The beautiful people, the stupid people, even those I despised, were projecting my unconscious guilt at me. As I consciously forgave myself through forgiving the actions of others, the darkness began to purge itself from my experience. Little by little, the sun shined a little brighter, the children laughed a little harder and my heart smiled a little wider.

When you find yourself depressed, coveting an experience from your past, try looking at it from a new perspective. Time was not meant to distract you from the present moment but to give you a taste of what’s possible.

When pure light spontaneously floods your life, know that it’s there to remind you where you came from and where you are going, not to signal that your human work is done.

 

 

 

 

Relephant Read:

How the Loss of a Loved One Prepares us for Life.

 

Author: Ashley Kimler

Apprentice Editor: Elizabeth Brumfield/ Editor: Renée Picard 

Photo: Helmuts Guigo at Flickr