The Very Very Empty Nest

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This Is Gratitude? — God

Seven years or so ago I went the

wrong direction, without doubts or reservations;

 it felt undeniably correct to

kiss my former life goodbye. I'd miss it

for a while, but I'd survive.

I have no

patience with regrets, but I would surely

have a slew of them if I allowed

myself to rue my history. I'd wallow
for a time, pure self-indulgence, like a
scented bath with wine and candles, but no
matter how I'd try, I couldn't pull the
past into the present; anyway, I
should be satisfied.

Looking back, I realize I missed a
turn I should have taken on the journey

home; but in my haste I wandered down a
hill and through a mist, I barely noticed
it but for the momentary chill; and
on the other  side were people, places,

oh, a lot of things I thought I’d known, but

they had changed and I had not. I longed to

go back through the mist, but it was gone.

I came here in December to the place where

I was born; and here, in waking and in

sleep, I mourn because they don't remember

me.
 In this strange land, sometimes I feel invisible

and yet endangered; and I wonder, is it

I who’s changed then, after all? I've fallen

into new and unfamiliar territory,

for I’ve always been so good at what I

do, and people saw it and were pleased and

they applauded me.

My life flowed easily back then. I wonder

if it ever will again. I wonder,

am I old? Have I begun to drift in

that cold course that flows into the sea? Could

this be why the current chills the bone, and

will I ever know again the warmth of

family?

I wonder, is this me, the real me, stripped of

roles?
— no longer needed day to day to

fill the holes of hunger, fear, or loneliness that

were my charge, my purpose, and I happily

embraced it. It was home, a holy place;

I was the heart of it, and never loath (that

I remember) to prepare a meal, to

be a lap, a shoulder for a child who

felt, perhaps, as I do now, but only

momentarily, as is the way of

children: so resilient, protected by

imaginary cloaks of immortality.

Soon they scamper off to play.

— no longer

wanted as a lover and a friend, to

warm the bed and fetch the coffee and to

touch and kiss in passing. Is this, then, the

end of love, here on the dark side of

the mist?

Somehow I’ve lost my reason to arise at

dawn, give thanks, and start my day, for now there’s

no one who depends on me, and still, with

seven years gone

by, I grieve.

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Recommended reading: The Joy of Living, by Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche
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