Dark Moon Musing: Grief, Water, and the Eight of Cups
In retrospect, if I could have seen myself through the eyes of a fly on the wall, the scene must have been at least mildly funny: I started the kettle and sat at the kitchen table—cried, crawled back into bed. I re-emerged from bed an hour later, actually made the coffee this time and drank a cup while trying to write—cried on the couch for a while. I spread out in the living room, moved through a yoga flow for an hour—finished practicing, cried again on my mat. I ate one stale Oreo and threw the rest away. Then I cried. Again.
We’re all privy to the deep sadness that is often entangled