.mantras.

Two months later, scars are a little less fleshy and pain has become a little more dull. Ending eight years of a life-giving relationship is more of a divorce than a break up. There is no furniture to split, financing to consider, or a pet to develop joint-custody plans for, but there are poetic memories which must be shoved into a box somewhere in a musty closet. I no longer have the right to flip through them with deep love for the man in the pictures. I have lost my right to claim him as a vital part of me.

It is easy to lose hope in what "God's best" looks like (or even if I have a "God's best" at all). Particularly because now my criteria for such a man extends out the door and around the Starbucks a couple blocks away. But hope has not left me quite yet. Though I consider myself to be the bruised and damaged potato in the bag, and would probably advise everyone to use me in mashed potatoes instead of baked whole (at least for now), I would not toss me into the composting pile yet.

There are several things that I hold onto to propel myself through marathon days of experiencing singlehood and life without my previous partner:

1. Joy is not equivalent to happiness. It is much more meaningful than "feeling good." Rather, it resides simultaneously with grief and sorrow, feeding off of hope and faith for something better. It is full, not empty, even in great loss.

2. I have been given the charge to "learn to do good, seek justice, reprove the ruthless, plead for the widow and defend the orphan." Loving friends and family, an Iolani/UCLA/UH PhD education, and disgust for inequality were not placed into my lap so that I could remain safe. They were given to me so that I could be brave...especially in my hurts.

Sometimes nights are too quiet; my afternoon runs are too lonely. Often even cups of coffee steam with little reminders of Japanese ryokans and lazy LA afternoons together. But I continue to inhale deeply, tearfully, and R E L E A S E.