I went to yoga, took deep breaths, worked on opening my hips. I rested my head on the ground, attempted to signal to my sympathetic nervous system that enough was enough and it was okay to take a break; my heart breaking all the while.
I took the train home, read the words of Brian Doyle. Thought a lot about grace and the Dali Lama and the “riotous incoherence” of this world, and wondered if grace was larger than love, and then set the book down because I couldn’t breathe.
I poured a glass of wine, melted cheese and butter on the stove, sat at the kitchen table. And then I sat in front of the computer and wondered if the story I was stuck on was even worth the time.
There is perfection only in death, that’s how the story goes. Not my story, The story. The story we all tell again and again and kneel at the alter of in awe.
I climbed on top of the bed, the air on, my glass of wine, mostly untouched, balancing just above my highest ribs, a dull pain deep within my chest.
Perfection only in death--a basic tenant of the story most of us cling to. Perfection only in death, which is not absolution, but the dictate by which we must live. Which is to say: to stay awake, to try, to do better, to keep going, to keep going, to keep going.
Which is the point of grace, I think--the heart, ever breaking, goes ever on.