The Thing About Numbing

Last week was a roller coaster week - the kind of roller coaster where your insides somehow get pinned to the roof of your mouth and your heart ends up where your tongue should be. One of my bestest friends in the world was here for a brief, fly-by visit. Over the course of about 36 hours, we laughed and wept and biked 20 miles and ate and drank and had the time of our lives...and then she was gone. There are no words to describe how amazing this time with my friend was. Two days later, I put my 13 year old dog to sleep after watching her slowly succumb to the dark haze of doggie dementia. That was by far one of the shittiest things I've had to do in a long time. It was a week of extremes - a wonderfully, engulfing sense of friendship and love, followed by terrible loss and emptiness.

One viable option when feeling the pain of loss this week was to drink myself into oblivion and sleep for 3 days (which I sheepishly admit that I sometimes do). But when I do this, I miss the depths of love, wonder, and awe that are just as palpable as the pain. When I do this, I sleep through the friendship and the biking through the park in the brilliant sun and the long conversations over rich glasses of wine. The thing about numbing is this - although we try, we can't selectively numb. We can't numb pain and suffering without numbing hope, joy, and fulfillment. Perhaps this isn't very zen of me, but I choose to feel it all. Passionately. Every. Day. I choose to slurp up every last drop of joy and pain and bliss and suffering equally in gratitude and in hope that I will not just live life, but that I will live life abundantly.