The day after my divorce, I felt sorry for myself and thought I’d find comfort before sleep in “When Things Fall Apart” by Pema Chodron, an American Buddhist nun.
I thought I’d find a pat on my hand. A hug. A “there, there sweetheart.” I shuddered to read:
“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.”
Annihilation?! Over and over?! I couldn’t fathom more pain and dreamed of wounds and bone marrow and vague feuds.
In the morning, my waiter remembered me despite months of being away. The frittata he served sang with feta cheese and golden butternut squash. And the warm baguette.
Annihilation. Then fortification.
I thought I’d find a pat on my hand. A hug. A “there, there sweetheart.” I shuddered to read:
“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.”
Annihilation?! Over and over?! I couldn’t fathom more pain and dreamed of wounds and bone marrow and vague feuds.
In the morning, my waiter remembered me despite months of being away. The frittata he served sang with feta cheese and golden butternut squash. And the warm baguette.
Annihilation. Then fortification.
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