Heartbreak, Healing, Dawn.
Updated: Jan 31
Dawn was my favorite time of day. The Vedas say that it is most auspicious, the transition from darkness to light, the cusp of awakening, the time for meditation and yoga and connection with the energy that turns the world around the sun.
That cosmic force.
It’s not the reason why I loved dawn. I loved the colors, the sweetness of gray blue that spoke of steel, and silk, both. I loved the slim chance of glimpsing gold rimmed clouds more than the assurance of hot pink sunsets, of a day lingering at the precipice of night.
Give me the full potential energy of an almost-beginning, of what-could-be, of day dreams that want to become more.
Give me the unknown.
The Vedas don’t tell you the most auspicious time for a break up, but he chose dawn, the last man I loved enough to cry for. And cry we did, for days, until I boarded a plane to Copenhagen and he to Monte Negro. We wept together on the floor before leaving, wept alone at desks as we handwrote letters to each other, pen and pencil on lined paper.
Old fashioned. Romantics. Writers.
You should stop dating yoga teachers, my mother once told me. You should stop dating artists, I added to my list, which grows longer with every heartbreak.
But hearts mend, you know. Like the diaphragm, they rest more than they work. A beat to push your life through you, a beat to feel the force.
The cosmic force.
This idea of cardio, of speeding up the heart rate and slowing it back down in the name of fitness— what a novel idea. For thousands of years, yogis have been training the heart to do just the opposite: stay low, stay steady. Non reactive. Highly receptive.
The last time I went to the doctor, she told me that I had the resting heart rate of an olympic athlete. I hadn't done cardio in years. Just loved, and lost, and loved all over again. But I didn't say that. I said that I do a lot of backbends.
Oh, she said. Hmm.
I stopped sleeping when he left, became a child of the night. I would roam along the river by a little starlight (and lots of Brooklyn light), and come back home to candles I’d burn through the night.
That’s the best way to miss dawn. Live by the moon, and then skip straight to full sunlight.
A year, and then more, went by without dawn in my eyes.
They say time heals all wounds.
Is a heart break a wound? or a window?
What I do with most of my time is yoga so my heart has the healing powers of Wolverine. The only person semi up-to-date on my love life is my brother, who has both the incredible processing speed and complete suspension of judgement to handle the details. But I don’t tell him about the visions, the sightings of my heart, the ability to be on the mat and feel, see, hear, what is within: the stories, like this one, and the colors, like dawn.
So here are the broad sketches: I am in love.
I am always in love.
Call it the cosmic force, call it the unknown. I walk the river, alone, and I can feel, sometimes, full mouth kisses, from no where, from everywhere, from the expanse of the open sky, from the fullness of the moon, that cosmic symbol of completion, and like all culminations, also a cusp, a spilling into beginning.
That’s what I felt when rushing through the frigid streets last night, the Washington Arch lit up like the full moon hovering above it. And when I fell into the warmth of his arms again, there were no tears, or even memories of tears. No words, and no words about a year of silence. Just a knowing that nothing is ever known.
I slept last night.
And this morning, I woke at dawn.