Practice the wound of love
"Practice the wound of love. Real love hurts; real love makes you totally vulnerable and open; real love will take you far beyond yourself; and therefore real love will devastate you."
Ken Wilbur
....
Outside my house there is a spiderweb beautifully woven in a corner between the gutter and the siding-- it has pine needles captured in its net which gives it form and presence. It sparkles in the light. This spider was, no doubt, not trying to lasso pine needles. Did this web become more or less effective with the addition of unexpected decor? I feel like I'm living in that web-- a web that is both luminous and treacherous. I am the spider, diligently weaving a delicate path to nourishment. I am mystified by the beauty of what lands on the threads I've cast across great distances-- lines of a poem, the lyrics of a song, an image painted in vivid blues and grays. How many times does the spider have to start over when wind or an insensitive human obliterates their masterpiece?
...
This feels like an accurate metaphor for grief. I start weaving, at first leaping a great distance, then anchoring. Another leap, carrying the thread of hope through thin air, landing on a ripple that barely holds my weight. I gain traction and confidence and capacity. "You've got this", I tell myself. "Keep going". Occasionally I pause and marvel-- somehow, I'm managing to create again. Time passes and I realize how present I've been, immersed in the act of laying lines of connection in a pattern of love. But then the slightest wind blows and tears the threads, leaving me dangling far beneath my web. Everything around me collapses including my strength. I lay on the earth, devastated and inert, unaware of the sun and moon, unwilling to look at what no longer is. I cover my head and burrow under decomposing leaves. It looks like I'm dead. Then my awareness returns, I open my eyes and allow the sun to warm me. I look up at the remnants of my web knowing I have to choose: do I remake the web that lies in tatters or start over, entirely? It's an irrelevant question, actually. The only question that helps right now is "How do I find the will to throw out the first thread?" The only move that matters is the connection between where I am and the next anchor point. Everything else will unfold.
"When we mourn...we are in a state of freefall, our heart reaching out toward what we have seemingly lost but cannot help loving anyway."
Cynthia Bourgeault
