This year I have learned the graceful art of endings. Not in a blitzkrieg of rage, but in quiet ablutions, or if you like, folding away nicely, as one does heirloom napkins, with gentleness but also with resolution. Anger entails passion, and passion in any form is a dangerous province indeed.
Goodbye is not a tango that takes two, but the reckoning of one person who’s finally had enough. That closure can be achieved by “one final conversation” is a lie; closure is achieved at 2 in the morning, alone, waiting for the familiar stab of pain in your belly that usually comes when the hurtful memories pitch their tents, and feeling none. No more.
This year, truth be told, I have been hurt more by a friend than by a lover. After the vicious words are exchanged (and I say “exchanged” and not “hurled” because I admit to dishing out my share of spiteful words) and iron-hard walls are drawn, the anger subsides and all that is left is a big gaping wound whose presence is an oddity that cannot be explained. And this year I have learned that the best way to deal with those kinds of hurt – incoherent, unexplainable — is not to curl up into a tiny ball but to work. This year, I have worked hard. This past month, I have worked harder. And in the flurry of work and activity, the wound has become a little easier to ignore.
This year I have learned to look at my shortcomings in the eye. And this year I realized that spontaneity is my charm, but it is also my weakness. Planning is key. Especially when there isn’t much time left and the margin of error is slim. This year I’ve finally decided how I want my future to look like. The clutter has to go. Disposed neatly but with finality.
And because I have learned how to end, I must now remember once more how it is to begin.
I am finding that I have reasons to want to learn how to begin again….