“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” – Ernest Hemingway
It starts here. Every time it starts here: from an end.
Something closed, stopped, went away. Something died. It doesn’t matter what it is; it hurts.
For me, so many things died at once this year, most significantly you, when before this year, at 30 years old, not much in my life had died at all. A few family dogs, an acquaintance from high school, grandparents I didn’t know. But no one deep in my heart. You of all people know more than anyone how sheltered I was—you, the roof. As a grief virgin, it felt unfair; as if all the souls and all the galaxies were in cahoots behind my back that now was the time to collectively wither, go away, abandon—all so I could learn some great mystical lesson. All so I could be reborn. Sure, I get it. Spirit works that way: Rock-bottom is the best teacher; you can’t rise until you fall; obstacle is an invitation to bloom. But let’s not fool ourselves: before that lesson is learned and the growth grown, the withering hurts.