INSTRUCTIONS FOR COMFORT

First, let your heart break. If it is shattered, so be it. This is where you are. In pieces. Here, but fractured.

Let your heart ache. The pain is present whether you are present to it or not. This is where you are. Hunched in the indeterminable ache of now. Here, but wounded and worn.

This is where you feel the weakening sorrow that is being human, where you feel the harrowing angst that breathes through the aches and breaks of your heart – despite your knowledge that everything, in the end, is temporary.

Do not fight the flattening force of loss.

Do not stand tall in the face of disappointment and act like it didn’t mean a thing.

Of course, it did.

Do not be surprised when you discover that the reason it hurt so much is because it touched the other hurts that you thought you had buried. They rise from the dead like spirits stirred by a séance.

Do not act like you didn’t light the candles. Do not pretend like you didn’t pray for a visitation. Do not deny it was your idea to call upon the mystical realm.

This is an important next step. Whether you realize you are taking it or not.

Let the grief collect the grief. It’s essential to conjure the hurt.

Name what is happening, name what you feel. You can prattle on about the story of how you came to feel that way but it’s not necessary. Actually, that story may delay your path to comfort. The heart doesn’t need the stories the mind insists on telling and retelling. The heart needs a clear declaration. The heart needs a statement of experience. The words you use in this step become coordinates. You are here and this is exactly where you are.

Here I am. This is the shock of abandonment. This is the hurt of betrayal. This is me waiting for something that may never come. This is me facing the truth, an unexpected reality, looking at a life I wish I didn’t have to live. Here I am – cursing his name, wishing she was different, trying, regretting all the things I left undone. This is me ashamed of what I’ve done. This is me deceiving myself. This is defeat. This is confusion. This is jealously. This is love ending. This is love beginning and me fearing the end. This is rejection. This is humiliation. This is caring for the ones I love. This is carrying burdens that may or may not be mine to carry. This is being overlooked. This is being judged. This is me convinced that I chose the wrong path and unsure how to pick the right one. This is loneliness. This is longing. This is yearning. This is aging. This is sad. This is enraging. This is too much. This isn’t enough. This is humbling.

Here we are. Ours hearts full of shadow, our minds full of strategy. Our capacity to receive Love clipped by the secret unspeakable fears we can hardly acknowledge to ourselves. This is us arriving to a moment, with the pitch-dark pockets of our heart brimming with dread and the bright corners of our mind bursting with plans.

Next step - breathe. You may want to shut down; you may need to scream – there could be a surge of panic or an impulse to run. This is where you notice. This is where you breathe and notice. Of every step you’ve taken thus far, this is the one that cues comfort most completely.

Sometimes the attention you bring to your heart in this moment of recognition is in and of itself the comfort – other times, it is the prologue. It’s sets the setting. You write Page One with what you decide next. To make that decision, you summon your discernment and seek your faith. This is how you soothe the edges, this is how you sit in this painful now, this is how you find safety, even in the most tenuous emotional states – you choose to make yourself available to solace. You decide. You act.

You listen to someone who has been through the same hurt you are navigating. You believe you will see yourself through it – because this person shows you it’s possible.

You lean into the gods of your worldview. You bow in prayer. You walk with the angels. You visit the temple. You clutch your rosary. You observe the Sabbath. You sit shiva with your neighbors. You ask for signs. You talk to Jesus. You recite those verses from the ancient spiritual text you hold like a touchstone. You recommit to daily mindfulness.

You sing. You dance. You weep. You take a shower. You eat your favorite foods. You snuggle into a soft blanket. You let the day end knowing the sun will rise and nothing needs to be solved in this moment.

You go outside and gaze at the moon. You remember that beneath this sky is every alive person you have ever loved and in the stars is the light of every soul that has marked you with their presence before they left this earthly realm. Every one of your worst days has happened beneath this sky and so far, it has never fallen. Every one of your best days has happened beneath this sky and so far, it has never failed to greet you.

You remember your human heart and bring your hand to a spot on your body where you can sense its beating. It’s OK. You’re OK. I’m here. You’re safe.

You call a friend and laugh about the dumbest thing you ever said in public – and you laugh harder when she reminds you of the dumb shit she said in public. It’s dumber than what you said and that’s very funny. And now, you’re both smart enough to care less, which makes everything very, very funny.

You write a story. You read a poem. You play that song in your headphones and lose yourself in the melody until you realize the music has moved you through that moment you thought you would not survive. You are different now. This passage of time is not good or bad – it just is. No one is staying the same. No one is alone.

You let someone hold you. You fall asleep next to your dog. You wake up early to witness the sunrise. You drive to the spot at the end of the road to watch the sunset.

These are the choices you make to bear the fullness of your heart – these are the actions you take to hold what you don’t know and carry all that you feel.

Go gently. Feel without judgment. Name the experience. Drop the story. Breathe. Comfort arises. Open your arms to solace and embrace the choice to receive your life as it is. It will change again. And again, you will find yourself here. Go gently…