Floating Still

Earlier this week I wrote to a poem to a person close to me. The poem ended a letter that I wrote for myself but sent to this person to serve as a reminder that I am still loved by this person even if we were emotionally distant at a given moment, and a showing to this person that I am engaging in self-work. It was a love-demonstration.

The poem simply admits that much of what I offer within in loving relationship this person has shown herself and me that she can find within herself. It was a startlingly easy recognition for me. The harder mirror to face was the discovery that after all of these years of learning about love--searching through the crevices of affection, care, concern, gentleness, forgiveness,and honesty--I had entirely missed a very important part of loving another person: offering which I feel least able to do. And I am the worst at doing absolutely nothing.

In recent times, I have learned a couple of things about nothingness. I've learned that being is just enough--breathing is a miraculous act in itself. I've also learned that bearing witness is a transformative practice, often the ultimate form of empathy for suffering. As much as I hold these teachings close to my heart, I apparently haven't  fully integrated these lessons into my life. If I had, I would have a less dangerous relationship with intimacy.

Nothingness takes every inch of me to observe. Interestingly though, it is what is required of me now to love this person well, through my deepest insecurities. So I let go--floating still in the middle of the ocean, sky above and water below. I lay at the beginnings and endings of these profound elements of nature, and I am to say, or do, nothing.