This ripped my heart out. My god. We are too damn complex to be able to love fully, completely, intimately, in deep reciprocity with another. There is so much more against us than there is for us. Almost always…. Almost cause there’s no such thing as certainty. Yet the mere thought and actual idea of loving someone and being loved back by them sooo completely… brings tears to my eyes. Because in really, it’s all any of all of us want in this earthly life.
May your almosts turn into always as you navigate this life here on earth, says one with mouth and arms wide open. We are opposites in so many ways, but the same in many others. It's an enigma and wonderful to experience with you.
Oh how beautiful and generous Lesley. Yes, I agree about the differentness and sameness of us and how wonderful it is to acknowledge and experience. I’m grateful, to ‘always’ learn more about what is between us. 🥰🙏🏻
Almost 67 here too and lately, constantly reflecting on how I almost always only almost write what’s true. Almost always afraid to say too much, to throw light on some dark secret. I’ll figure it out eventually. Meanwhile, it’s good to know I’m not the only one.
The poem here by Amy and your reactions and reflections stirred by it, held me. Rocked me. Made me feel vulnerable. Had me in its grasp almost immediately. No let’s say I was Immediately overtaken. ‘Almost’ translates in my mind as ‘non-commitment. Of holding back and leaving a way out of whatever it is. Maybe it’s also ‘caution’. I don’t know. I’ve been saying that a lot, things having happened that confuse the hell out of me. I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge whatever kick in my heart and soul that I get. I’m wondering why there exists an ‘almost’ in nearly every good thing I could have had happen to me and then it didn’t. Am I almost alive? It feels like it some days. And day in and day out, here is the thing, I know there are people like you, a kindred at the very deepest level of someone I’ve never met, and being of the same age, that matters not even a tiny fraction to me, it simply means we’ve lived through the same global history from different places, we’ve lived in a world prior to this one, a world that was not connected upon electronics or through digital connections. We were out there living our lives, we remember certain events and certain situations, the kinds of events that we hope is still remembered and honored well into the future. All that to say it is a comfort to find you here doing what you are compelled to do because it is who you are. You are not ever ‘an almost Orly’ nor am I an ‘almost Susie’ that is all the matters. Along with every other person that crosses this particular path.
This is the school where I want to continue to learn and study. Where classmates are teachers; where we play together at recess, and swap lunches, and write our truths on blackboards, take turns reading our lessons out loud. I’m a new girl at a new school, approaching shyly— can I play?
Such good and poignant observations dear Susie, yes to so much shared here with me. Never ever almost Susie. Always in the front line of the heart. Burst fully open.
Ok. Just woke up. Got my phone and then—this. Your words are the first words of my day.
This reflection leaves me breathless. I feel a story buried inside it, a story buried in you. I feel pain and an emptiness. You’ve opened a door inside yourself —ever so slightly— to let your heart out. To release some grief perhaps. To get some fresh air. To let your body say what it needs to say, but is perhaps afraid to say. Your title, “Always Almost,” is the feeling I get from the writing—your writing, like kissing through glass, is your expressing yourself with a hand held over your mouth. Almost saying what you want to say. I want to remove your hand so you can breathe. So you can scream.
My dear friend, thank you so much. I’m breathless too. A tiredness fell on me last night when I wrote this. The exhaustion of a waiting. I am pleased that this closeup of a photo I once had is actually of a woman smelling a flower. And I must admit too, that every time I write my post here on Substack it is fully an act of removing my hand that covers my mouth, once again, for just a bit, to breathe, sigh, let out a wail. I am always so moved by your responses to these wails, your words, your particular love.
This ripped my heart out. My god. We are too damn complex to be able to love fully, completely, intimately, in deep reciprocity with another. There is so much more against us than there is for us. Almost always…. Almost cause there’s no such thing as certainty. Yet the mere thought and actual idea of loving someone and being loved back by them sooo completely… brings tears to my eyes. Because in really, it’s all any of all of us want in this earthly life.
And now I cry..🥺😚🙏🏻all these words, each and every one of them. Thank you from the bottom of my heart Val.
I can truly say, I love you girlfriend. 💜💜💜💜
Awww 🥰 🥹
May your almosts turn into always as you navigate this life here on earth, says one with mouth and arms wide open. We are opposites in so many ways, but the same in many others. It's an enigma and wonderful to experience with you.
Oh how beautiful and generous Lesley. Yes, I agree about the differentness and sameness of us and how wonderful it is to acknowledge and experience. I’m grateful, to ‘always’ learn more about what is between us. 🥰🙏🏻
Almost 67 here too and lately, constantly reflecting on how I almost always only almost write what’s true. Almost always afraid to say too much, to throw light on some dark secret. I’ll figure it out eventually. Meanwhile, it’s good to know I’m not the only one.
An epidemic of Almosts 😌😍
The poem here by Amy and your reactions and reflections stirred by it, held me. Rocked me. Made me feel vulnerable. Had me in its grasp almost immediately. No let’s say I was Immediately overtaken. ‘Almost’ translates in my mind as ‘non-commitment. Of holding back and leaving a way out of whatever it is. Maybe it’s also ‘caution’. I don’t know. I’ve been saying that a lot, things having happened that confuse the hell out of me. I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge whatever kick in my heart and soul that I get. I’m wondering why there exists an ‘almost’ in nearly every good thing I could have had happen to me and then it didn’t. Am I almost alive? It feels like it some days. And day in and day out, here is the thing, I know there are people like you, a kindred at the very deepest level of someone I’ve never met, and being of the same age, that matters not even a tiny fraction to me, it simply means we’ve lived through the same global history from different places, we’ve lived in a world prior to this one, a world that was not connected upon electronics or through digital connections. We were out there living our lives, we remember certain events and certain situations, the kinds of events that we hope is still remembered and honored well into the future. All that to say it is a comfort to find you here doing what you are compelled to do because it is who you are. You are not ever ‘an almost Orly’ nor am I an ‘almost Susie’ that is all the matters. Along with every other person that crosses this particular path.
This is the school where I want to continue to learn and study. Where classmates are teachers; where we play together at recess, and swap lunches, and write our truths on blackboards, take turns reading our lessons out loud. I’m a new girl at a new school, approaching shyly— can I play?
🙏🏻🤗😍
Such good and poignant observations dear Susie, yes to so much shared here with me. Never ever almost Susie. Always in the front line of the heart. Burst fully open.
Ok. Just woke up. Got my phone and then—this. Your words are the first words of my day.
This reflection leaves me breathless. I feel a story buried inside it, a story buried in you. I feel pain and an emptiness. You’ve opened a door inside yourself —ever so slightly— to let your heart out. To release some grief perhaps. To get some fresh air. To let your body say what it needs to say, but is perhaps afraid to say. Your title, “Always Almost,” is the feeling I get from the writing—your writing, like kissing through glass, is your expressing yourself with a hand held over your mouth. Almost saying what you want to say. I want to remove your hand so you can breathe. So you can scream.
Searing vulnerability… such clarity in these almosts … I see circles merging and separating, over and over. Deeply moved, Orly 🤍
Yes Willemien, so beautifully said 🥺🙏🏻😚
My dear friend, thank you so much. I’m breathless too. A tiredness fell on me last night when I wrote this. The exhaustion of a waiting. I am pleased that this closeup of a photo I once had is actually of a woman smelling a flower. And I must admit too, that every time I write my post here on Substack it is fully an act of removing my hand that covers my mouth, once again, for just a bit, to breathe, sigh, let out a wail. I am always so moved by your responses to these wails, your words, your particular love.
❤️❤️❤️