A dialogue between me and the Universe
This installment was actually written several weeks ago. This week, I’m dealing with loss; and while I’m not yet in a place to write about the grief I’m actively feeling, it feels cathartic to share a different piece about a different grief. I’m glad this eventually found its way to you.
Last night, I lay in bed, grieving the loss of something that mattered to me. I cried the sort of tears that fall slowly, one by one, like beautiful, tragic women do in the movies.
I was sad, but more than that, I was grateful. I had this vision of myself in the future, looking back on this specific moment thinking, “What a beautiful thing: to care about something enough to mourn its absence.”
This vision painted a picture where my sadness lived within a narrative of joy. It helped. It kept me grounded in myself and my values, and it gave me the space to process my grief without spiraling.
Today's reflection is a product of that processing.
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As I've gotten older, I've grown increasingly conscious of my “nest” — the careful collection of touchstones in my life. The things I allow myself to genuinely invest in and make space for. I fill my days with dozens of hobbies and friends; it’s rare to find me without something on my plate. But, even so, I am selective about the hobbies and people I allow to truly demand space.
Recently, I made space for something in my nest. A little trinket I found. It wasn't much, but it was enough to warrant some careful consideration. I made adjustments to my time, my energy. And yesterday, I learned that the space I made is no longer necessary. Very soon that thing will be, more or less, gone. There will be an indent where it once was.
And the feeling that came up for me, loathe as I am to admit it, was violation. Like my security was compromised.
To make it easier to talk about this, I'd like to reimagine it as a dialogue between me and the Universe — the Universe, of course, being the wiser version of me who knows how all this works.
But look! I say to the Universe. There's a spot there! I made it! And I'm supposed to just adjust it all over again? After all that careful deliberation and effort?
Well, yes, the Universe responds.
But that’s…inconvenient. I went through all that trouble.
That's correct, it says with a polite nod.
And I'm upset. You didn't ask me if you could take it back.
I’m sorry I didn’t ask you. The circumstances just didn’t allow for that. It’s very understandable that you’d be upset.
I frown at the Universe. Its indifference is a little maddening.
I’m only a little sad that you took it, I clarify. I’m mostly sad that I have to change up my nest again. I was excited about the new layout. I was getting comfortable. Do I really have to reconfigure it again?
Are there other options you’d like to explore? The Universe asks.
I have, in fact, explored those options:
I have stared mournfully at the indent in my nest, resolving to keep it just as it is, in case whatever is lost comes back.
I’ve set other things in its place, hoping to fill the void of its absence.
And I’ve screamed into the skies, demanding that whatever it is be returned to me.
I haven’t been particularly impressed with the outcomes of these approaches. The Universe, in its endless wisdom, knows this. It stares at me as I come to the inevitable conclusion.
No, I shrug. I admit, my tone is a little petulant. Fortunately, the Universe doesn’t take offense. I’m still frustrated, I add for good measure.
I know. The Universe can intuit such things.
And I forgive you for this upsetting inconvenience.
I’m glad to hear it, it responds. Because even in its glorious omnipotence, the Universe really does desire my happiness.
So that’s where you find me today, friends: somewhere between grief and gratitude, humility and humor, frustration and forgiveness. It’s a strange place, to be sure — but I’m slowly finding my stability.
Now, I’m off to move around some sticks.
