A Benediction

On the day when 
The weight deadens 
On your shoulders 
And you stumble, 
May the clay dance 
To balance you.
 
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss 
Gets in to you,
May a flock of colours, 
Indigo, red, green,
And azure blue
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.
 
When the canvas frays
In the currach of thought 
And a stain of ocean 
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.
 
May the nourishment of the earth be yours, 
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
 
And so may a slow 
Wind work these words 
Of love around you,
An invisible cloak
To mind your life.
 
~ John O’Donohue, Bennacht

As you are ready, write your own blessing for your companions in this broken-heart space. What do you wish for, knowing that the pain itself cannot be fixed?
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Benediction: the utterance or bestowing of a blessing

To my dear hurting hearts,

I pray. And, I do not pray. I give offering. I believe in love. I hope for light. I bow to the things that are greater than me. Generally. But if I could pray. I would give you this prayer. 

I would pray that you can see the light you bring to my darkness, and how that light can infect your own darkness. 

I would pray that you have a ladybug land on your leg during a soft sunset. 

I would pray that you can smile at a dog scratching his back on the grass at the park. 

I would pray that you trip on the sidewalk and laugh when no one else does. 

I would pray that the wind whips your hair on a day when you feel most alone. 

I would pray that you can let yourself cry before sleep tonight. Because you remembered that time you wore these pajamas when you played that silly game and he made you laugh so hard. 

I would pray that someone brings you stuffed acorn squash and asks you what your grief feels like today. 

I would pray that you get to throw a 14 lb medicine ball at a wall and scream with tears and sweat rolling down your face. 

I would pray that a child can tell you a knock knock joke that makes no sense except the sense it makes to listen to them giggle over his own nonsense. 

I would pray that you know. When you are up at 3 AM. Someone else is up somewhere too. They are bereft and broken. Just like you. You aren't Facebook friends and you can't pronounce the city of the name they were born in. But they woke up like you. And are so sad they can't breathe. But they are there too. Sharing this deep, collective grief. 

I pray that you, like I, can one day carry this grief into someone else's grief. Hold them there. Let them just be. 

I pray that you know that your grief is BFFs with my grief. That they braid each other's hair and mine sings Aladdin to your Jasmine. They make friendship bracelets and whisper in their sleeping bags. 

I pray that you know how precious you are to me. I wish you weren't because it means you know this deep grief. I am thankful and devastated that you know this beast. But, still. You are precious to me. 

This is the most important prompt of all for me, and there is so much I want to say about you. About this space that you've created for me. You are the salve on this open wound. You are the place where I am not so lonely. You are the place where I can be seen. You are a place where I am not the frightening witch in the haunted house. You are these things and more. I am so grateful for your bravery that is infectious. 

I pray, most importantly, that you feel this gratitude. I can't give you anything else. I can't give you hope or platitudes or a dream of a life less lonely. But I can say thank you. And that I mean. I can't say much I don't mean these days. Perhaps to a fault. But. I am happy in little else than knowing that you are here with me. 

If I could pray. I would pray for you. And little moments of reprieve for us both.