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I cried a few times today.

The first time, I sobbed on the couch in my office clutching two decorative pillows to my chest.

The second time, it felt like my heart was breaking as I wept holding my loneliness.

The third time, the tears fell more softly as I listened to a reading of names, all of whom died yesterday in a tragic act of violence, and most of whom were 6 or 7 years old.

As I go to bed, I am tired and I am sad. I want to make sense of life, and I can’t. Not mine, and not the many, many people whose lives are harder, or have been marred more grief than mine. I want to find something to hold onto in the midst of all of it. I want a source of comfort, of strength, and of hope. I want something to help me believe that it will get better or easier, or that someday, it will all be meaningful.

But I just don’t have it tonight. I really wish I did.

Instead, I find I have the capacity to tolerate whatever is left in its absence. It feels a bit like emptiness, though it’s not completely hollow. I’m grateful I can just be with it, and I wish I didn’t have to. I wish life were different than it is.

The thing I sense at the edges of the emptiness, the thing keeping it from being absolute, I think it might be love.