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Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
"Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."
Can one be sure of another without losing part of the self when that other is gone? I used to feel that a strong sense of self and sufficient self-esteem would protect me from feeling less than whole if I were ever faced with separation from a loved one. But then, gradually, boundaries seemed more and more contrived, the possibility of separation more and more unlikely, and edges became blurred, not worn down by abrasion or time, but simply rusty from disuse.
It is difficult now to parse myself out of what remains. I once had the energy to author myself, a process at once of discovery and creation. But I have precious little creativity these days, and discoveries are not always pleasing. How ironic to send someone away, and then to find that, in a sense, I've gone as well! Perhaps I thought that we would never really be truly without each other, that we, although no longer labeled "together," would still lend to each other our selves (if such a thing can be done), since they complement each other so well.
I was a child when I met him. I am not one now. I don't remember what has happened in between. I know I am not less of a person because I am no longer reflected in his eyes. This, however, does not tell me whither or how to proceed.
"Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."
Can one be sure of another without losing part of the self when that other is gone? I used to feel that a strong sense of self and sufficient self-esteem would protect me from feeling less than whole if I were ever faced with separation from a loved one. But then, gradually, boundaries seemed more and more contrived, the possibility of separation more and more unlikely, and edges became blurred, not worn down by abrasion or time, but simply rusty from disuse.
It is difficult now to parse myself out of what remains. I once had the energy to author myself, a process at once of discovery and creation. But I have precious little creativity these days, and discoveries are not always pleasing. How ironic to send someone away, and then to find that, in a sense, I've gone as well! Perhaps I thought that we would never really be truly without each other, that we, although no longer labeled "together," would still lend to each other our selves (if such a thing can be done), since they complement each other so well.
I was a child when I met him. I am not one now. I don't remember what has happened in between. I know I am not less of a person because I am no longer reflected in his eyes. This, however, does not tell me whither or how to proceed.
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