Last night at my writing group I mentioned feeling sad recently, and the response was so sympathetic. The friend I rode with thanked me for being so honest and trusting the group. Her comments reinforced my trust, and I felt glad I'd actually said how I was feeling. Right speech can be transparent speech, in a safe setting and with supportive friends.
How did I get to this feeling of sad? I peeled back the layers of the onion. I noticed I was craving murder mysteries, and instead of berating myself for shallow taste, I curiously inquired why I was wanting a mystery these days. I realized that the books represent a dark part of my life I don't want to acknowledge or face. Many dark events are scattered throughout my childhood and adulthood. Deaths and losses, moving and cruel words, abandonment and feeling helpless. And my brother's death is clearly having repercussions even though his death happened over a year ago. I'm haunted. I have his ashes in a guest bedroom. I'm still wrestling with the IRS about his taxes. His life is the underbelly of my life, and my family was filled with the drama of novels and mysteries.
So I'm going to give myself a break and accept that my life has not been all sunshine and roses. I write in a gratitude journal every night, but maybe the mysteries balance the facts of my life. There is dark and light and sadness and joy. A heavy heart can be loving and tears mix well with laughter. I'm learning to accept my history. Still.
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