Progress is not linear; it proceeds only until it falls away again.

I once thought I had gained so much experience with endings, with accepting the temporary nature of any part of life: a place, a practice, a person. And, for a time it was true. I could bear the last expression with peace for trusting the next encounter, though different, would also be meaningful. Now, I seem fragile. I remember those old partings calmly, but i can hardly bare current disappointments. However trivial, if I catch sight of something that connects to my actual care, then lose it before reaching out to it, I will be devastated. I need a night of complete seclusion to mourn with myself. With a damaged heart, I feel the need to avoid that instance and all that follows from it, not willing to break down again to wade toward some solution or other similar alternative. Just let me be, and keep that thing which wounded me far from my unmoored thoughts. It is not a place of courage I look out from, these days. I most often regret bringing anything I care about to surface, instead of living in the patterns of others.

But if the line of progress is a wave, it should at some time turn to rise again.