No. 1: Light and Darkness

When Ricoh planned this sip and paint home date night for us, I didn’t think he realized it was more than a romantic gesture. It was therapy.

But, he did know.

Of course, he knew.

He’s my twin flame.

We exchanged smiles between brush strokes.

I used to paint as a teenager, but I didn’t take the craft seriously because writing was my primary art form. It lives in my DNA. It's a gift of sorts that my grandfather passed on to my mother and that my mother gave to me.

My mom is one of the most creative women I know. When I was a kid, she drew and painted Precious Moments on the walls of the church nursery (IYKYK). Her precision and attention to detail was so... good. It was as if she worked for the company. Her artistic talent was impeccable. The prowess she commanded with a paintbrush was the same ingenuity my grandfather had with a camera.

My grandfather was a real estate appraiser, but photography was his art. My grandma has dozens of photo albums filled with decades upon decades of memories. One album is literally nothing but baby pictures of me. Perks of being of the first grandchild.

He died in 2017.

Cancer.

He and my grandma were married for 55 years.

Moments after he took his last breath, I remember my grandma running out of the house and wailing, “What am I going to do now?”

In her moment of despair, I realized how heavy their love was. And I wanted to have that: a love so deep and thick that I wouldn’t even know what to do with myself if it no longer existed.

That’s the type of love I have with Ricoh.

That’s the type of love Ricoh has with me.

"You good, babe?" he asked.

I blinked a few times and snapped back to the present.

"I guess I got lost in my thoughts for a second," I said and sipped my merlot.

It’s bitter sweet, really — the wine and the reality of life. One day, the inevitable will happen and I will leave Ricoh or Ricoh will leave me just like my grandfather left my grandma.

On the one hand, that type of pain makes me wonder if love is really worth it. Wouldn’t it be better to just live out my days in total solitude so that I can avoid or save him from the suffering to come? Or are we the lucky ones to have found each other and built a life together when so many people go to their graves never finding their person?

The dichotomy of life and death and love and loss reminds me that light and darkness co-exist within all of us. They have to. The human experience wouldn’t be the human experience without the presence of both. Aha moments like this make me realize things like grief, stress, and doubt are part of who we are just as much as peace, joy, and love.

I've tried to avoid suffering on my quest of manifesting a fulfilled, abundant life — and in doing so I've accidentally stirred up a lot of resistance. Suffering isn't to be avoided. It should be expected and accepted. Embraced, even.

"Now, that's some powerful stuff," I said under my breath as I threw a splatter of turquoise across my canvas.

Ricoh looked up from his painting and smirked, "What's going on in your head over there?"

I chuckled, "Oh, just... you know... nothing."

When my mind shifts from avoiding suffering to allowing it, I take my power back. I maintain my position of authority because suffering is no longer something I run from or try to escape. I just work with it. And when that happens — when suffering is processed without fear — the void and broken spaces are filled and transformed into something whole and beautiful.

Reflect

1. What parts of yourself do you usually keep in the shadows? How might it feel to bring them into the light?

   
   

2. Is there something creative you could try that might help you process what you’re feeling?

   
   

3. How often do you allow yourself to just feel without trying to fix or change anything?