My Stigmata

 Happiness is to appreciate what you have;

unhappiness is to dwell on what you don't have.

Rabbi Shimon Ben Zoma (2nd century)

 

Could simpler words connote a more complex philosophy or challenging approach to life?  I am reminded of the period of time, over a decade ago, when I was newly separated from my then-husband, and had moved out of my beloved home into a lovely and enormous three-bedroom apartment with my two young children.  While the apartment met all of our needs and offered a sense of security, how I mourned the loss of the house I had recently vacated and all it represented for me.  Even then, I had the emotional insight to recognize that the house was symbolic of the marital and domestic roots I had just violently yanked from the ground beneath us all.  But nevertheless, I could not, for the three years we lived in that apartment—years that were more happy than not, despite the tumult—shake off the longing for a house and the rootedness that it represented.  Whether out on my daily runs, driving my son and daughter back and forth from their Dad’s and school, or simply running errands around town, I gazed longingly at every home I passed, each cramped brick colonial (such as the one I had just vacated) and cape, each modest three bedroom1950s rambler, all typical of the town I lived in then and where I still reside.  The longing seemed to flow from a gaping wound in the center of my chest that was so intense, so palpable, it frequently took my breath away.  At such moments, I often found myself looking around, wondering whether anyone else could see it, the jagged rent in my being which could not have been anything but obvious to even the most casual glance. 

 

Since then, I have spent almost a decade sinking my roots into my current abode, one of those modest 1950’s ramblers I once viewed so idealistically.  I have lovingly composed a different life and a home in this house which, much more than any other place I have lived, reflects who I am and who I am in the process of becoming.  It was startling, then, to find myself recently standing in an empty apartment in that same building where we once lived.  I had accompanied a co-worker, new to the area and looking at apartments to rent, and as the rental agent led us into a unit which was an only slightly updated version of the same apartment I once occupied, I felt a swarm of conflicting emotions centered in that same place in the middle of my chest.  I have felt for years now that that particular wound had healed and closed over.  Still, while the scar that grew over the wound would have been invisible to anyone else, I knew precisely where it was and could run my fingers over the exact spot, which I did from time to time when lying in bed reading, in a fully relaxed state.  But suddenly, standing in that empty apartment, my wound seemed less completely closed than I had thought.  As if it could open again, at a moment’s notice.  My stigmata even now, when I can simultaneously dwell on the blessings and steadfastness of my current life.