Well, we survived another Leap Day and no one seems any worse for the wear.
Or, is it possible that the ‘worse for the wear’ happens later? If so, don’t tell me.
I think I got through this week on sheer will-power. It started innocently enough. I read a post about divorce. Of course, after reading I thought: Wow, this writer is brilliant. If all she needs are page views to make a small fortune, she’s hit the Holy Grail. If she’s really trying to impart wisdom then I’m honestly just a little afraid, but that’s a ‘narcissism as art’ post for another day.
The truth is (and I’m only telling you this), I missed someone for the first time in a long time this week. It’s true. I opened a book and saw a note he left me almost two years ago and for a second, I missed something, even though I couldn’t put my finger on it even if you threatened me with physical harm.
I just remembered that at that one brief moment, we each had exactly what we needed.
Thinking about that transported me (only mentally, sadly) back to Paris. Smarty just said that one day I will be referring to Paris as ‘going home’ and she is right. But this morning, I was thinking about the Pont de Arts and my recent visit ‘home’.
I had never heard of the Locks of Love until March of 2011 and by that point, I had already returned home to New York. Just a few weeks sooner, and I would have known to bring my very own lock to leave on one of the bridges.
This year, I made it a mini mission to search out all of the bridges I could. Of course, at each bridge, I found locks. Lots and lots of them. What I also found was a feeling of love and, in many ways, hope.
Hope is the great relationship equalizer, isn’t it?
Oh, the locks. I stood on the Pont de Arts on a day that was so perfect, even with its chilly temperatures, and I held back a few tears. I didn’t feel sad or alone or lonely – what I felt was hope. This hope that sort of reminded me that I’d gotten myself to my dream city not once, but twice, and one day, I’ll get myself back there and call it home because sometimes, it’s all about where you lay your head, you know?
Back to the title of this post…
I’ve had to say goodbye to a place that feels like home twice in two years, and I’ve said goodbye to relationships and to things and to ideas. And each new time, something came along that let me know I would be okay.
How do you say goodbye and have you had to do it more than you would like?