12.25.14

I remember an instant, close to eighteen months ago now, wherein I observed something extraordinary happen in my mind and spirit.

As is often the case, I found myself at a loss to communicate what I had experienced. Instead, I stuttered something to Matt about 'this being the part I hated.' We were beginning to fall in love then, and what I said confused him, understandably.

It was this though. At that precise instant, I felt an emotion that had been nothing but complete joy and awe before another human being begin, ever so slightly, to intertwine itself with the fear of losing said joy. It was 'grasping' at its most pure.

Last May, I left a retreat. Early, before it was over. I wanted my life. I, with all that I am, balked fiercely against being absent for one more moment of it unnecessarily. I could have stayed, I told myself. But I certainly didn't want to, and I couldn't think of any reason to. Sometimes I still second-guess whatever happened there.

Now I find myself here, alone at home with the worlds' sweetest hound dog for the week while Matt is in Florida with his family. I am waiting to hear whether or not I'll be admitted to medical school next year, and wondering about any odd number of things alternately looming in or brightly dancing in, depending on my mood, the future. But it is inescapably clear to me that the single thing I want most, and likely control the least, is for the love I feel when I am with Matt to continue forever.

I am acutely aware that I would give up any of the rest of it to hold on to that one thing- love.

Losing it terrifies me, and my fear terrifies me more-so.

Some president once said that there was nothing to fear but fear itself, which is all well and good, except that it's true, and then, if that's where it ends, we're stuck with fear anyway.

How does one love without fear?

How can I still be scared of losing something I feel all around me?

Love is not attachment, nor is attachment love.

The fear springs from attachment, always.

I want to love without fear, but I find great security in attachment.

I have on occasion experienced moments with a semblance of detachedness, not myself from them, but each of them from one another, as if they belong in no particular order.

I do not much enjoy this experience.

There is something, I suspect, about our attachment to others that gives the moments a meaningful sequence as well, or something about our desire to give the moments a meaningful sequence in our attachment to others.

The notion of 'bearing witness' has long struck me as something special.

I have not written much for the past eighteen months.

I think that writing more often allows me to experience life with less fear.

In the meantime, I miss my witness. Maybe just because he keeps half the bed really warm.