Phases

Life comes in phases.

Yes, it's true things come back full circle—like how I'm back once more to staring at a white light bulb, some parts of me a tired, barely-there mess, and some other parts quite comforted. Still, everything is a progression or regression of sorts.

This phase for me has been that of tears, thoughts so weighty they've only been expressed as heavy exhales, and thick silence. And for someone who loves to pitch her tent right in the territory overrun by rainbows, clear skies and still waters, 2021 has been anything but safe.

The waters have rippled and churned day in, day out, to the point where giving my best has become equal to taking that one step in front of me.

Losses of different proportions, the most hurtful ones coming from the most unexpected sources, have showered on me like falling leaves during a gusty harmattan wind's visit. And on certain days, the most comforting sound is that of me breathing.

"I am surviving." I croon to myself, "And I know I'll thrive." is the mantra that unfurls in my head, as I lay it against my arm, and listen to my pulse beat the steadiest rhythm I've been privy to in the now.

I don't intend to stay in this hole forever. Dark, brooding colours have never been my favourite of shades. But for today and every day I've spent in this year, I've learnt to appreciate them. I know now that pain is valid, and people hurt should not be made to think otherwise.

I still believe that in life, there are more bright days than days of gloom and despair. But now, I understand in great depth why at the point of grief and hurt, people don't see that.

I understand now that pain is a process that shouldn't be rushed, and the best we can do is guide people through by the constancy of our presence or by the sweetness of our prayers.

And perhaps, my most precious lesson has been learning to embrace pain—reminding myself that valleys are as important as hills in this forest's architecture, and that even the spaces left blank in a painting's canvas give it depth and meaning.

In the pain, I'm learning to embrace my saviour. To lean my head on his chest, and just breathe him in moment by moment. I'm learning to not be strong, so he can step in as my source of strength.

I'm learning now that I'm finally falling that he's sufficient to carry me. Behind the scenes while I wait for the curtains to fall on these tear-jerking parts of the entire play, I'm learning to savour the blessedness of quiet seconds—those periods when I'm speaking, and I'm the only human who can understand me. I now appreciate those times, cos I'm left with only God and me—a combo I'd often indulged in passing, but never to such lengths.

I'm grateful for all these. And even now, I rejoice through the tears because this bittersweet season holds in its arms an assurance that my best days are here with me, and God is a constant part of it.