Something Personal…
Before the loss of my dog, and long before the troubles with layoffs, something always simmered between us. Marriages and partnerships are never easy to navigate. If they were, I suppose I'd write a single line, and everyone would live happily ever after.
But after devastating loss and a whirlwind of emotions—trying to figure out who’s to blame and what timelines to scrutinize—feelings can be shattered, sometimes irreparably.
I remember my mother once telling me about a visit to a palm reader. She said, "Never worry about your second daughter; she’s like water." Always adapting, fluid, able to fit into any space when needed. Kenneth, on the other hand, is like metal—strong and resilient, but less malleable. When smoothed and polished, he’s nearly indestructible.
Until he met me.
I guess that’s how marriage works. You take a fine piece of metal and try to fill it with water. Sometimes it works—the metal contains the water. But sometimes, the water leaks out, seeps away through condensation, or worse, corrodes the metal from the inside out, turning that beautiful steel into rust.
Nothing is perfect. Water, like emotions, is a natural force that can’t be fully contained, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, our bond was held together by Mishka, our dog. Maybe you can relate. Maybe you can’t. Maybe your relationship with your loved one runs so deep that nothing could ever break the bond.
But sometimes, we need to find new ways to view life—to see beauty even in corroded metal. After all, Richard Serra saw something in rusted steel that inspired him to create art—monumental works, 12 feet high and 70 feet long.
Yet, a hollow house can feel lonely without the bond that once held the family together. But here we stand, like Serra’s sculptures—strong, weathered, but solitary.
In those quiet moments, we find ourselves waiting—waiting to be seen, to be understood, to be saved. But maybe, instead of waiting, we need to embrace the loneliness, to let it shape us, as Serra’s rusted steel shapes his art. Maybe, in that solitude, we’ll discover a new kind of strength—a resilience forged not in perfection, but in the acceptance of what is.
And in that acceptance, perhaps we’ll find a way to rebuild, not as we were, but as we are now—flawed, yes, but still standing, holding on to the possibility of something beautiful, even in the rust.
