It’s such a paradox to be experiencing the lingering grief of heartbreak while simultaneously falling in love, but I’m learning to exist in the balance.
Sometimes I think we have become so disconnected from our environment, we avoid the places that house our hurt, sever the ties, and cauterize the wounds. But so much of my life has been defined by my proximity to pain and my ability to confront it, to stay, even when my mind wants to run.
The other day, I had to go to the Hoover Reservoir for work. I hadn’t been there in at least ten years. It’s one of those places that I prefer to leave in the past. But when I got there, I saw the younger versions of myself running through the trees, watching the sunsets at Red Clay Bay, kissing that cute boy by the dam. I once loved it there, but I couldn't wait to leave.
Then as I was making my way out, not trying to stay a second longer than I had to, I came across a luna moth. A green dreamy creature that practically glows in the dark. It was rare to see one during the day, and I knew it must be sleepy. I knelt down next to it and reached out my hand.
Luna moths hatch without digestive systems or even mouths. They never feel hunger. They never have to endure pain. Their soul imperative is to dance beneath the moonlight until they have found a mate. They do this for about ten days, basking in the glory of our nighttime world until they have run out of energy. It’s a brief and beautiful life, unmarred by time and history.
These creatures symbolize the balance between light and darkness. They represent new beginnings. As I sat there with it, creating a new memory in a place that contained so much else, I understood that healing only happens once you allow yourself to try again.
It might be scary or confusing to invite love into a place that has been so damaged, but it is the pain that will help you make different choices and realize the possibilities for yourself and the life you want.
Our potential lives in the places we are most afraid to go.
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