I arrived in London this morning after a much-delayed flight.
After a day full of meetings and delays, I cracked a fortune cookie from lunch:
What. What does this even mean?! The Fortune Cookie Prophet is rarely ever wrong. But I have been breathlessly busy for the last six months. How could my working spirit not be affected by becoming…busier?
But the day was…awfully busy.
So the evening fell and I left the office, and walked through the bright green evening; through Grosvenor Square, with its American flag, and its September 11th memorial.
The inscription on the memorial has always struck me: Grief is the price we pay for love. Each time I pass it, it knocks on my heart. And May is the month in which I am always just trying to keep my head above the waters of my own grief; bobbing nauseated in the swells and going deaf from the beating noise of it all.
There is more than just my own grief, I know.
In fact, I know I am surrounded by people I love who are hurting, and I’m not ignorant of their pain, or blind to what they’re experiencing. But the point of my writing is that it’s my story to tell, and while we are often the stewards of other people’s stories, the only ones we ever really have full authority to tell are our own.
With that in mind, it was getting late in the day so I went for a run to clear my head.
I jogged the well-trod path in Hyde Park — a trail I’d run many times before — and I watched the sun sinking, just as I’d watched the sun rising that morning, before the plane dipped below the cloudcover to touch down at Heathrow.
There was So Much that was happening, and so much that had gone on. But strangely enough, it all felt just…normal.
My working spirit, as it turned out, was unaffected by anniversaries, and grief, and life, and so on and so forth.
The cookie prophet was rarely ever wrong.