On Loss and Loving

Sitting in the Home Depot parking lot, I am overcome with feeling. It swells in my breast like a wave rising, inflating me, threatening to carry me across a sea to some distant shore.

Loss brought me here, or was it love? Because without love coursing through my veins, loss couldn’t jump on board, reminding me that connection is possibly the most important currency we carry — more important, I’d wager, than time. 

So how did I get to this point, paused in the motion of my day, swelling with love and loss and feeling so much that there was no other option than to pull out my splashiest pen and a notebook full of to-do’s?  

Even tidal waves have origins. This cresting and feathering breaker of feeling wasn’t due to an immediate loss of my own, although it was, in a way, a reminder of it.

Most of the time, I follow my intuition into action — nudges, we call them, and they are plentiful. I move when I’m moved, most of the time. 

Today, I was moved by the deep longing for a hamburger. We do not judge the longings; we simply abide. 

Pulling into the restaurant's parking lot, my eye caught the massive Petco sign, and I remembered, Oh! We need cat food. That’s why I’m here. The search for meaning is an endlessly human trait. 

Although I’m certain my fat cat is grateful he’s not going without tonight, I don’t think his evening meal was the reason behind the directive — not the main dish, anyway. 

Sitting in the restaurant, waiting for my order, I caught the eye of Silvia (not her name). We used to see each other in the water a lot (when I used to surf a lot). I smiled widely and scooched out of my corner table (where I had intended to tuck into a book, true introvert style) and hugged her. 

I expected our encounter to end with some pleasantries, but she said, Oh, I’ll just come over and sit by you. For a flash, I felt constriction, yearning for my book and my silence, but just as quickly, I called myself back to the beautiful human next to me. 

Silvia lost her husband a few years ago. He was a wonderful man, and every time I see her, my heart aches for her loss. She has sweet grandbabies, so I asked after them.

It’s hard for me sometimes, asking after other people’s progeny when one of our greatest dreams was to be parents ourselves — stories for another time — but today, at the mention of her grandchildren, she lit up, love radiating from her, and I knew it was the right question to ask. 

Our conversation continued. Nobody surfs as much as they used to (yay! I’m not the only one), but when she mentioned surfing with a friend who I’m no longer in contact with, my heart twisted. Loss of another kind. 

Getting into my car after a delicious meal and many napkins, I remembered another friend I hadn’t spoken to for years. Her mom passed not long ago, and in recent days, her dad. I grew up with these people; I’ve known them since I was eight, but it had been such a stretch since I’d spoken with Mary (not her name), which is easy to do when you live an ocean and half a continent away, that I could have easily dismissed the idea. However, given my recent opening with Silvia and commitment to following all nudges, I took the chance on connection and text her. 

Which led to an honest, open, and heartfelt exchange. 

“How are you?” wasn’t answered with conversation enders like, “I’m good, everything’s good.” — seriously, are we really fooling anyone with that response? — but instead spurred real connection. 

We shared about our spoiled and very loved dogs, the desire to have (more or any) children but being unable to, the love we have for our families, the blessings of our lives. 

More opening, more love, more human experience shared and therefore a load lightened, a little. 

Loss and love. They’re everywhere. 

Mary would love to have her parents walking this earth; I blessedly still have mine: hale and hearty and ten minutes away. 

Silvia would love to be at the beach with her husband; I get to hug mine daily.

We would’ve loved to have children; they have littles to shower with affection.  

Friendships that have expired might still long for each other from time to time. 

We don’t know the lot we’ll get when we sign up for Earth School, but one thing is for sure — we are all touched by love and loss. Not one of us escapes either; they’re of a single coin. 

Love opens us to loss, sure, but connection opens us to love, and to choose to live without it is to choose a dry, husky life. 

Following a nudge to the burger joint was an unexpected gift that offered me the opportunity to open my heart, let love wrap loss in her infinite embrace, and shower us all with connection.

We never know where Love will lead us.

Even now, weeks later, I am touched by tears as I write this, and yet I would choose that day and its tenderness over isolation — every single time.