Yesterday, as I opened the door to my studio, I noticed a ceramic plate my husband had given me years ago had fallen from the wall and smashed into many pieces on the cement floor. I loved the piece, and considered it witty and fun and colorful. I gathered the pieces, realizing it was not repairable, and when I went back in I did not mention it to him. He would take it hard, harder than I did, and sometimes his response takes over and I am overwhelmed by his passion. I just wanted to feel a bit sad, but not too sad, feel grateful that I'd had the plate all the years it was around, and move on.
He takes things harder, gets very reactive, and I feel swallowed up. Sometimes he's done that when it is my grief or disappointment or worry. So I was silent, and am not planning on telling him about the plate anytime soon. Things break, things change, sadness is soon over if left to sit a while. I wish I could explain to him that I need breathing space to have my own reactions and responses, but he means well, he's just very emotional. The pieces of the plate were taken away with the Monday garbage pickup, I'm fine now. But I'm glad I allowed myself a breather before I tell him. It's a pause, and it balances me.
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