Well, I suppose it was inevitable. No sooner had I written this post about how calm and cool and copacetic I was about my divorce, than the skies clouded up and darkened, and the waves gathered to crash on the sandy (rocky?) shore of my psyche. Or something along those lines.
Divorce, my friends, is hell. Plain and simple. It is exponentially more hellish when children are involved. It takes a long, long time to "move on" in any meaningful way, and even when you think you've started to do that, something can happen to trigger all the yucko feelings you thought you'd started to leave behind.
I think I am experiencing the anniversary effect--meaning, since it was Halloween night when my marriage was handed to me on a platter, the crisping air (which MacGregor refers to as "that first chilly scent of Canada") and signs of orange-and-black faux-ghoulishness start to remind me of the real horror of grief, shock, abandonment, guilt, failure, fear, etc. etc. etc.
Love is not always enough. The best of intentions falter. Resolutions wither and die. Things change. Leaves, like plans and hopes and dreams, turn and fall and crumble to dust.
But yes, there is always the promise of far-off spring, that cliche of cliches for new beginnings--but no less apt an analogy for that. There is hope. There is faith (more about that, soon). There are grace and forgiveness. There are, thank goodness, lots and lots of kleenex. (No one really thinks you're crazy for crying on the subway, right?) There is tomorrow--and tomorrow, as Scarlett O said, is another day and, as Annie reminded us, only a day away.