Failing at empathy when you consider yourself an empath is a confusing experience. Of course, being an empath doesn't mean you are perfect at understanding or processing other people's emotions, it simply means you feel their energies and emotions in a very profound way, sometimes so intensely that it impacts your physical well-being. Perhaps this is the reason I failed so miserably to offer gracious succor to my partner when we began dating four years ago.
My beloved lost his beloved seven years ago to brain cancer. Knowing this, my first response to him was complete empathy, and sometimes in the first year I was with him, I literally felt a physical response to his emotional pain. I was overwhelmed with a feeling that I needed to take good care of him, and keep him from further harm. This was not a maternal urge; it was merely an intense need to love him through the transition of letting go and moving on. Moving into "us."
Somewhere toward the end of that first year, however, I started to feel something else. I began to experience crippling grief of my own. I couldn't shake the sadness over the fact that I was his second choice--the knowledge that were she still here there would never be an "us"---the belief that he would choose her over me in a heartbeat. They had more in common, after all. She was clergy, he was a faithful church goer. I was agnostic. They both loved to garden. I killed every plant I tried to nurture. They had no children. I had two. And so on.
To him it seemed I was determined to undermine our happiness, and I am not proud of the fact that rather than offering him the support I intended to offer I probably hurt him by not accepting his love for me. For "us." Ultimately, and without realizing it in a formal way, I started to apply my own theories about empathy to our relationship. I began to accept that we don't have to share the same experiences or values, we simply have to honor and accept the individual paths that led us to each other. Writing helped me get there, and I share the specific piece that turned the key for me below. It's a reminder to live within our own uniqueness while embracing that of others. In spite of our differences, whether they be in the realm of politics, race, sexuality, religion...we will all be grieved one day. In the meantime maybe we can offer some peace to the grieving (and we are all grieving something).
The Cedar
There’s a cedar tree in the otherwise empty field where I first met him
Tall, grand, fragrant, it stretches high to the heaven beyond the clouds
We walked in that green expanse, aware of its presence, its beauty
He drew me close to him under her glorious shadow, and I felt peace
As the seasons changed, and our love grew strong, I would find him there
In the field where we laughed and kissed and talked our dreams
And he seemed overwhelmed by both her earthiness and etherealness
It was as if she was speaking to him in a language I couldn’t know
In those moments I felt ostracized from the secrets they shared
And longed to hear the content of what passed between them there
He always returned, still loving, still mine, but the atmosphere rained grief
I knew he wished he could explain to me the meaning of their bond
Assure me that the connection they had was ancestral, an ancient song
Borne on the air with wings of history and time, rooted in silent awe
But I grieved too, for the nature of our dance grew changed in her shade
I would force my mouth into brave curves, and hold him tight to me
Believing, in that first walk we shared, a seedling was born to light
If we were to nurture its tiny needles with light, and water it with tears
Perhaps it could grow as strong and high as its heaven dwelling forebear
We would toil and pray and sing hymns of praise and thanksgiving
And work to raise our tiny sapling to proud adulthood amid the vastness
So ultimately, and inevitably, the two trees could stand watch together.
