That's what my mom once said to me. She once told me a story about a co-worker who had recently lost his father. During this time he saw (or read, I can't remember) Field of Dreams. She explained that it was the right story at the right time and this confluence of events made the story extra special to him.
That story was sounding in my head as I lay on the floor sideways, ribs pressed to carpet and beanie-covered three day hair that was pressed against a pillow. Tears stained the pillow cover as I slowly cried. I had just read some chapters of Elizabeth Gilbert's book Eat, Pray, Love, and some of her words described emotions, thoughts and ideals I had but could not express. It's like I was experiencing all of these things without wearing lenses; I could see the general fuzzy shape, but none of the details, which distinguish one things from another.
And there, as I lay reading about Gilbert's understanding and forgiveness of her ex-husband, her wise and perfect soul meeting her husband at a place where they could converse, that is when I decided to let him go.
For reasons I still do not understand, I cared for him in a surprisingly serious manner. And, in all fairness, perhaps it was the nature of what we had, which was stretched and tortured (on my end) by weeks and months of idealism and the hope of seeing him, perhaps that's what reeled me in. In truth, I believe I will never know why I felt for him as I did, and in the end all I know is that my feelings were real because I felt them very deeply.
But it was that brilliantly cold and sunny morning that I realized my time for justified anger was over and taht all I wanted and all I asked of God was to help me let him go. And I did. I wished him god luck, told him I'd always care for him and that I thanked him for the happiness and the pain that made me a better person. But mostly, that version of me that is more together, and cool and collected, wise and generous, that woman told me it was time to leave and time to move on with my own life.
I started this blog entry by stating that sometimes we are presented with images or experiences or art or words that convey precisely the right thing at the right time. These moments are fantastic and life-affirming.
Gilbert's book was like that for me; the right words at a time in my life when I needed to hear them.
I once saw a palm-reader/fortune teller who told me 2008 and 2009 would be good years for me. When she asked me to close my eyes and tell her what colors I saw, I told her that I saw navy and purple. After reading a book about a woman administering her own rescue, of finding and loving herself for exactly what she is, I sit here now, in a crowded airplane seat, purple irises in front of me and purple scarf wrapped around my neck.
I believe there is no coincidence about this and it is not lost on me that the color purple connotes healing. I myself feel as though I have been on a journey of self-discovery and that I am finally becoming the woman I always wanted to be. One who is unapologetically and totally herself. And sometimes I wonder just how much that fortune teller really did see.
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