Dearest One,
This is my favorite story of us.
Appropriate, I think, as we get ready to leave the third rehab of this year, that was part of the 14th hospitalization of the last two and a half years. Before the wheelchair and the walker and the oxygen, before the small suitcase of meds complicated even a weekend overnighter, and the list of my conditions stretched onto a second page, when I could still take a walk with you without thinking about how I was going to take a walk with you, but when it was all starting to slip.
I said (bravely, from that secret place of vulnerability and fear), I’m terrified that you’ll leave me as my body continues to deteriorate. You looked at me, annoyed (and my heart skipped a beat or two in that instant) and said, “Do you think I’m that shallow? It’s a body; I love you.”
I’m sorry that I didn’t know how to trust you then. And yet, here we are, and I know there is beauty in me. I see it, reflected in your face. There is love, filled with hearts and flowers, yes, but also the harder stuff, the exhaustion and stumbling, foolish grace. And when it is dark and I cannot seem to find the next foothold, there you are, and I know rest and ease.
I am not my illness, not my limitations or doubt. I am cherished and I know such love! Ever and always, I am my beloved’s, and you, my beloved, are mine.
Love,
Me
Stacey Zisook Robinson is a poet, essayist and full-time rabbinic student. www.stumblingtorwardsmeaning.com
