We’ve had the most incredible full moon as of late. Silver pours from the night sky and, I must admit, I like it even a bit better when it’s still there waiting for me at 7 A.M. the next morning. Like it couldn’t get enough of the nighttime that it has to bogart a little from the daytime to feel fulfilled.
A day or so ago, someone mentioned my post Access to me. Just over three months old now, it was a post borne from heartbreak (and in some very unexpected ways). And under last night’s full moon, I simply thought…
isn’t it curious what slips through the cracks when your heart breaks?
It takes a lot of energy to keep a heart from breaking – whether you’re driving a business or relationship forward. Shit. It’s exhausting trying to hold an egg shell together with an iron fist. And when it’s exhausting, we look back later (after the carnage) and realize that all that energy we spent trying to prevent heartbreak could have been better spent elsewhere. And there’s much that got neglected.
Hearts break. Lovers, friends, family, pets, jobs…we lose them. Things don’t turn out the way we planned. One of my cycling coaches has an adage that if cycling were easy, it would be called “beer.” If heartbreak was easy, I’m figuring it wouldn’t have “break” as part of the word.
But how often do we look at what seeps through the cracks of a broken heart?
In a mere three months, I’ve managed to put myself and my business first. Dropped a pound or two. Moved my ass in every sense of the word. I’ve fallen in love with me again and am in the process of seeing multiple mind-blowing things come to fruition. I’ve booked the trip of a lifetime. I’ve saved money, made plans.
And all of this…just slipped through the cracks of a broken heart.
When we’re so close to something that’s gone awry, we can’t help it but to get caught up in the fact that my fucking shell just c-r-a-c-k-e-d. Somehow, we’ve got the energy to go out and buy party hats and beer for our own little pity party, but we don’t have the energy to sit down and deal. We’re more content to shove nomnoms and self-deprecating comments down our throats than get off the couch and start living again. The sucker punch hurts. Sometimes we punch ourselves. Either way, the shell is straight fucked and if we’re not going to cowboy the hell up to pick up the pieces, who is?
I looked at my broken shell this week. Funny – it’s not so broken. A little spit, duct tape and “fuck this” put it back together. But I’m really glad for what seeped through the cracks. I see every broken heart I’ve ever had as a gift. It’s like a herd of pet Awesomeapottamuses (a mythical creature I created yesterday on Twitter). They subsist on a diet of love and dreams and in the environment you least expected.