This blog post is republished from my original blog, Plush Palate from April 20th, 2011. I felt so vulnerable sharing these intimate words that I pressed “publish” amidst a conflicting internal dialog then jumped into bed for a minute to hide even though I was totally alone. The response was astounding! Within minutes, over 100 heartfelt comments quickly flooded in and to this day, I still have people write to me referencing the impact this post had on them. That was when I first began to understand the power of letting ourselves be truly seen in order to connect with others. Plush Palate has long since been closed but I wanted a place for these words to live on, which is the reason I am republishing them here. I only wish there was a way to transfer all the beautiful comments I received, but I’ve saved those on my computer just for me. I hope this serves as a reference for myself and for those who tell me they go back to re-read these words when they need a little inspiration:
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April 20, 2011 –
Today is my 28th birthday, a marker that holds very special meaning to me. Some of you may know that the idea to create Rue came to me on my 27th birthday and at a time when I felt deep heartache, loss, and emptiness. A season of my life was closing and a beautiful four year love story that began in Italy had ended. I always go back and forth about how much of me I am comfortable sharing here but the reality is I feel close to you because in some intangible way you’ve been part of my journey. So today I’m looking back at where I was a year ago today as a reminder of how far I’ve come.
At this same time last year, I unexpectedly found myself alone in the South of France with a suitcase, a camera, and a journal. I spent a week traveling the beautiful riviera by myself, eating meals at tables for one, and sitting with silence. Some of you may also know that I lived in Italy for three years in my early twenties. Like the moon and the tide, Italy always pulls me in. So I couldn’t help but hop on a train one day from Nice into the nearest Italian city I could find — Genoa — so that my heart could feel that love again. It was a dismal and rainy day in Genoa but I walked around the city in my big sunglasses to hide my tears. I buried my face in the scarf wrapped around my neck to mute the sound of my sobs and roamed the city, crying every step of the way. Here’s what I wrote in my journal that day:
“I am in Genoa. In Italy for the first time without him. I loved this country before him, I will love this country after him. But so much of it was with him. I tell myself I’ll be fine. And then a deep sorrow hits me like a punch in the gut, acid to the eyes, and I can’t see. Now comes the true grieving and the pain. The beginning of the healing. But healing seems like the wrong word, when I feel so far from ever knowing its meaning…
The learning to be a little more comfortable in silence. A little less lonely when alone. A little less empty without a companion. A little more comfortable sleeping in an armless embrace. And all I want to do is cry. Cry because I have an empty bed to go home to tonight. Because I still miss the easiness of his unconditional love. Because nobody is here to catch my tears or break my fall…
When you lose a love, well then nothing else matters. Nothing has a taste, a smell, or a voice as beautiful as when you were here. You light my world with your smile, your laugh, your knowledge, your large personality. And without you everything is muted. I cannot even begin to figure out a ‘why,’ a ‘regret,’ a ‘what if’ because I am too disoriented to sift through all the pain.
Sitting at a table alone, I just finished my meal, which would have tasted better if you were here. I am writing, tearing up, and the Italian waitress looks up, her dark hair, big brown eyes meeting mine, gentle smile and chiseled face asks, “Vuoi un cafe?” And it is beautiful and what I came here to feel. I loved Italy before you, I’ll love it forever after. But you are so much a part of the reason. And as long as I am writing, keep my pen to the paper, I am not alone with my heartache…”