In August, the month that I left for this trip, I was coming to grips with the fact that my relationship was dissolving. A relationship that I had poured myself into. Despite the fact that I had finally learned how to be good at loving, and to give myself fully to someone else. Despite … everything. I couldn’t find the mistake or pin point where I went wrong. Even now as I look back I feel blameless. It didn’t matter. I didn’t matter. Not enough, not even at my best.
And it crushed me. Not swiftly, not all at once. There was no “we’re done”, or disbelief, or the sudden crippling surprise. It crushed me slowly to sleep next to him, and to feel him recede. Inch by inch, everyday less mine. Despite everything.
I tried to write about that feeling. I only found a single phrase. It isn’t eloquent, and I don’t know where it came from. In that sense, I guess it’s honest. I feel so small. Those four words ached behind my eyes, and I saw them written on the bathroom tile. They held the helplessness and the emptiness I felt from giving myself away.
But standing in Yellowstone, absolutely dwarfed by plateaus and mountains, they took on new meaning.
I feel so small. And I am small. Even my hurt and my fear.
(photo) on ilford b+w film, with Pentax k1000 (words) Bon Iver's Holocene.
Your words really touched me. You eloquently, truthfully, described the feelings I couldn't describe. I was there. A very long time ago. And again, not so long ago. I hope you're better. Because in time, it does get better. By the way, you're a beautiful writer. And I also love your pictures!
ReplyDeleteI know that exact feeling. There was a moment about 15 years ago when I felt it...I was standing on a curb downtown after a life-changing and heartbreaking afternoon, and when I looked up to the sky, I could have sworn the buildings were stretching into the clouds.
ReplyDeleteAs I drove home, I felt the smallness disappear but a whole new set of fears and feelings set in. Things get better or at least things change and we make better out of them.
xo sarah
Sarah, funny how that feeling can come in nature or in a big city. The sense of being humbled (and feeling small, in the good way) has carried over to even everyday life on the sidewalk.
DeleteThank you for sharing, it's good to know I'm not alone in this feeling.
I love your Yellowstone posts. I lived in Jackson Hole, WY for five months in 2010, and I loved my proximity to the park. It's beautiful country there, and I miss it every single day.
ReplyDeletekate, that must have been so amazing. I was overwhelmed by how much there is to experience there!
Delete& I'm glad you've enjoyed the photos. I felt a bit like everyone's crazy neighbor "and now ... here are the photos from my family vacation"
You are such a beautiful writer. So glad I've stumbled upon you!
ReplyDeleteYour best, friend. Your very best, my best friend!
ReplyDeleteCan't wait for our phone date!
Your words are so beautiful, the way that you write is magnificent. Even though you may feel small, you are not. You're larget than life. I know this may be a hard time, but the smallness will subside and you'll become strong, larger than life in time.
ReplyDeletedon't worry about being so small...we are ALL so small! but it really doesn't matter in light of how big God is!
ReplyDeletepsst- i do love your blog. :)
Mae, First Year, Laura, Maria, and Michelle : thank you for your kind words of encouragement. It's so nice to have a positive place to put my doubts.
ReplyDeletewhen life and love makes you feel small, it can be crushing and overwhelming. But when nature makes you feel small, it can be reassuring and comforting. At least, that's how I've always felt. The smallness that life makes me feel ebbs and flows; but nature...nature always has a way of sneaking up on me and reminding me of it's majesty.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful words, as always. Thank you for sharing.
When I say I understand....please believe me, I understand. This is, as always, so beautifully written.
ReplyDeleteThis makes my heart ache.
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing.
Dani // andbubblegum.com