// On Endings [or: On Beginnings pt. 2]
I have written about beginnings. But since endings are an inherent part of them, I cannot not write about endings when writing about beginnings. And the truth is that most often, the latter is easier to embrace. Endings are painful. Even though we might have expected them, even though we might have known it was bound to happen, and even though we might trust that it was and is the right thing to happen. Still - it hurts. Endings initiate the kind of pain that is slow, subtle, subliminal. It the kind of pain that creeps inside our lungs which makes breathing fresh air an act of resistance. Endings are endless echoes, bringing forth the faint fibers of ancient longings weaving arcs of yearnings, strung to breaking point.
A while ago, I had sensed the ending of a precious relationship in my life – I was able to smell rotten roots, and I saw the clusters crumbling. And yet, I was not prepared. I could not be. Whilst seeing all which was falling apart, I was neglecting the ending, and I was tempted to jump ahead. I was creating a world in my head where things were easy. Where the ending did not exist. Where we could start anew. Because as humans, we are wired to anticipate the liveliness of beginnings. We have to. Otherwise, we would not survive. However, there is medicine and healing to be found in walking through endings with an open heart and the time-space to grieve.
If I were to ask people what gives them strength in these times, many would turn towards the future, many would find solace in the thought of going back to normal again. But what if we are inside an ending? What if there is no going back to normal, ever again? What if our world, as we used to know it, will never be again? I believe that what has been happening in the past months has changed the texture of our societies, and I believe these changes cannot be undone: they represent the closening of a life we used to know. If we ignore the ending, the opening cannot unfold, because it is the ending of a movement that introduces a new one. Without taking the time to grieve and honor and sit with the ending, we will find ourselves inside a beginning that feels fake, that has a bitter taste of tainted memories, and that is tied to the expectation of something that no longer is.
The thing is that endings are not always clear. They don’t always contain a full stop, a discernable marker of the fracture. Sometimes they are sticky and stubborn, like grains of sand that find ways to stay in your pockets of skin and cloth even weeks after you had spent a day on the beach. They are not the rupture, they are not the beginning, but they are intertwined with both. Endings intensify, and often result in or lead up to the rupture. The rupture has its own place in there. How do we know? The rupture’s pain is sudden, sharp, sliding. It is a shock to the already shaken system. It is the burst; it is when I know I cannot sink any further, when I have reached the lowest point. It is when the weight becomes all-consuming, and I fall. It is also when the pressure cedes, for the crack releases. It is when I am suddenly able to look around and see the mess. The beginning is present as soon as I can see beyond.
The thing is that endings are not always linear. They are not the rupture, they are not the beginning, but they are intertwined with both. And sometimes, they impose themselves as a cycle of overlapping processes, in which there are as many beginnings as they are endings, a thousand little cracks forming a fractured web that somehow still holds itself together. Sometimes, the ending doesn’t want to be the end. It may just want to change its form.
In my case, the ending of the form of this relationship had announced itself a long time ago, little inconsistencies were taking the place of synchronicities, I could watch my gaze changing, and I could feel the dynamics shift. And yet, I was still trying to uphold the hope. To blame the circumstances. To neglect and avoid the ending. So, it imposed itself. It exposed itself. The moment I felt it, the earth broke down. This was the first rupture. Since then, there have been many more, just like a volcanic eruption will likely be followed by another, and/or by earthquakes manifesting the ongoing presence of the burst. These continuous eruptions and earthquakes have turned my system upside down. It is a cycle of many deaths and many rebirths, and I can’t force or foresee the order. All I can do is walk inside the crater, be present with what is and with what no longer is. All I can do is trust that the seasons need to fall into one another and that the ending will allow the form to change. All I know is it takes time to integrate an ending. All I know is that after a volcano eruption, lava fields provide fertile ground for new plants to grow.
There is no going back to how it was. And maybe, this is the best that can happen because the ending is a portal, it is an opportunity, it introduces an opening. But more than anything else, the ending is sacred. No matter how small, no matter how loud, it is a death. It deserves to be seen, held, and reverenced. It is a death that deserves to be lived. Whenever you have honored the ending in all its extensions, whenever you are ready and open to receive the beginnings, it will let you go, it will allow you to move on.
The thing is that endings are not always round or smooth or happy. Sometimes, endings will be messy and ugly and unfinished and unexpressed and inconsistent and bumpy. And they are just as sacred. Imagine a jagged rock face as a very sharp and tattered ending, torn off and molded by nature. And now, feel into the stone. If you are a climber, you know. It’s the edges, the rugged cliffs, the irregularities of the stone that will provide the most security, the best grip, the strongest foundation to reach new heights. There you go. And I mean it – there you go. The ending is engrained in the stone you are already climbing – honor the edges and have faith in its footing.
