Betrayal
When she said, He betrayed you, I breathed in so hard my lungs froze to ice. I couldn't remember how to breathe out--for a moment, I worried my body had forsaken me, that somehow this breath, held far too long, would kill me.
I was sitting in my car, which was running, in front of a grove of trees I love, where I often go to have private conversations--the only place in my small town where I can be alone. It was a cold November day, and there were no leaves left on the trees, just the web of branches stubbornly emerging out of one another, black outlines against a foggy, grey sky.
What was it about that word, betrayal?
When I could breathe again, I said, I don't think so.
Yes, she said, which was unlike her.
I can't remember if she asked or if I asked myself: when, besides this time, has someone you loved betrayed you?
I closed my eyes, held my hand over my heart. So many scenes blurred together, so many people I had loved and lost or still loved who had hurt me hovering close, close. My body shook. Am I having a seizure? I wondered.
What would it be like to believe that you have been betrayed? She persisted. What about that word is so hard for you?
Well, there are the obvious answers: shame. Fear it could happen again. Worry over what others are thinking now: she should have known better She takes too many risks. She makes the same mistakes over and over again. This whole social justice thing she's doing, the intimate ways she's doing it...well, we all knew it wouldn't go very well. She could have chosen a normal life.
But also: maybe I should be OK with it. I signed on for this. Everyone who has betrayed me had their reasons: mental illness, drug abuse, grief, fear, ignorance...
Yes, she said. But the hurt. That is separate from the how and why.
I breathed in, long and hard, then breathed out. The whole car felt warmer. The tightness in my chest let go, and I felt tears on my face for the first time in a long time. I used to be able to cry easily, I said.
Yes, that gift will come back.
Was it a gift?
An open heart, a heart not closed by fear of being betrayed again, by shame or rage--yes, that is a gift. But for now, just let your shattered heart be held.
We sat in silence for awhile while she breathed with me. I let my broken heart be held--imagined its pieces in her hands, then floating in the great unfurling, the swirl of light and stardust and love.
Suddenly I remembered the freak 4th of July storm from more than 10 years earlier that had destroyed most of the ancient trees in this place. How I had driven around the next day, weeping for trees literally shattered, trees that had fallen and then struck again, splintering over and over.
And now, these new, whole trees towered high over my car, shelter for so many birds and squirrels.
Shelter for you, too, she said, and that's when I realized I'd been talking out loud. No wonder you always talk to me from this place.
After we hung up, I went out into the cold wind and touched each tree, let the warmth of my hand absorb the vibrations there--of growth, of beginning again, of the ongoing cycle of all our lives.
By now, the fog had lifted and the sun cracked open the thick layer of clouds. Suddenly, early snow began to spin out of nowhere, the flakes tiny and glittery silver. I held out my hand and watched the flakes land there, absorb into the warmth of my hand, and disappear.
I was sitting in my car, which was running, in front of a grove of trees I love, where I often go to have private conversations--the only place in my small town where I can be alone. It was a cold November day, and there were no leaves left on the trees, just the web of branches stubbornly emerging out of one another, black outlines against a foggy, grey sky.
What was it about that word, betrayal?
When I could breathe again, I said, I don't think so.
Yes, she said, which was unlike her.
I can't remember if she asked or if I asked myself: when, besides this time, has someone you loved betrayed you?
I closed my eyes, held my hand over my heart. So many scenes blurred together, so many people I had loved and lost or still loved who had hurt me hovering close, close. My body shook. Am I having a seizure? I wondered.
What would it be like to believe that you have been betrayed? She persisted. What about that word is so hard for you?
Well, there are the obvious answers: shame. Fear it could happen again. Worry over what others are thinking now: she should have known better She takes too many risks. She makes the same mistakes over and over again. This whole social justice thing she's doing, the intimate ways she's doing it...well, we all knew it wouldn't go very well. She could have chosen a normal life.
But also: maybe I should be OK with it. I signed on for this. Everyone who has betrayed me had their reasons: mental illness, drug abuse, grief, fear, ignorance...
Yes, she said. But the hurt. That is separate from the how and why.
I breathed in, long and hard, then breathed out. The whole car felt warmer. The tightness in my chest let go, and I felt tears on my face for the first time in a long time. I used to be able to cry easily, I said.
Yes, that gift will come back.
Was it a gift?
An open heart, a heart not closed by fear of being betrayed again, by shame or rage--yes, that is a gift. But for now, just let your shattered heart be held.
We sat in silence for awhile while she breathed with me. I let my broken heart be held--imagined its pieces in her hands, then floating in the great unfurling, the swirl of light and stardust and love.
Suddenly I remembered the freak 4th of July storm from more than 10 years earlier that had destroyed most of the ancient trees in this place. How I had driven around the next day, weeping for trees literally shattered, trees that had fallen and then struck again, splintering over and over.
And now, these new, whole trees towered high over my car, shelter for so many birds and squirrels.
Shelter for you, too, she said, and that's when I realized I'd been talking out loud. No wonder you always talk to me from this place.
After we hung up, I went out into the cold wind and touched each tree, let the warmth of my hand absorb the vibrations there--of growth, of beginning again, of the ongoing cycle of all our lives.
By now, the fog had lifted and the sun cracked open the thick layer of clouds. Suddenly, early snow began to spin out of nowhere, the flakes tiny and glittery silver. I held out my hand and watched the flakes land there, absorb into the warmth of my hand, and disappear.
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