I always write this letter from inside my own life.
From day one I have promised myself to sit and write it no matter what is taking place, for me. There have been times (not often) when a heartbreaking moment happens on the same day as this letter has to be written and I feel obliterated.
Something happened today that shook me.
What happened is not important.
What is important is that I was able to get up and come here, at my desk to write to you.
The show must go on, however hard it is.
Every second, every day and every chance we get after a moment of impact it is given to us by God, the Universe, whoever your higher power is.
I didn’t know how I was going to write to you after today’s moment of impact.
But I am here writing. For you. For me.
What happens in the moments after a big blow?
More hurting. Even though we go from one moment to another.
It feels like a continuous moment doesn’t it?
I wish it was more like a string of chairs.
One next to the other. Ten or fifteen chairs.
And we would sit, feel the heartbreak, get up, sit on the next chair, feel it, then get up again and so on.
I don’t know where the visual of chairs is coming from, but I do know that I had to get up from the chair I was sitting in with my broken heart and come to sit on this chair to write to you.
For some reason that felt good.
And even if I can’t make your pain better today because I am inside my own, I wanted to make sure I sat here with you regardless.
We can be in our own pain, and sit with someone else’s.
I always believed in that.
I have studied pain, I have felt it.
I have seen it in others.
I have witnessed all the many versions of it, and one thing I know for sure is that pain can be lessened when there is someone else’s chair next to ours.
Even though our chairs are possibly hundreds or thousands of miles away from one another, thank you for sitting with me today.
And I hope you felt my chair next to yours too.
With healing chairs everywhere,