India 10 Candlelight Joined All The Others

 My tears started at the first “you.” I ripped the paper into tiny shreds, placed them next to the rose petals, and removed my ring. After a moment of hesitation, I set it beside the flame. The gold caught the firelight and lit the bowl even more. I bent over, placed the package on the water, and let go. The Ganges took the cup from my hand and carried it along in her current. Soon, my candlelight joined all the others.

 Kristin Zibell 

When not doing things abroad that make her mother and aunts cringe, Kristin Zibell writes to inspire women to live their travel dreams on her blog TakeYourBigTrip.com. Kristin lives in San Francisco, traveling locally and always planning her next big trip.

India 10 Seven Years Together

This time, there were no nervous mothers, no stoic fathers, no 267 guests—just the Ganges and me.

I could do this—with more honesty—in the middle of this holy river, in the middle of India.

By the light of the small candle, I read the vows in a whisper, hoping the sounds of the sitar would cover my words so that only the river would hear them. I placed my ring on my finger and read aloud.

Thank you for the seven years together.

Thank you for your kindness, your love, and your forgiveness.

Whatever anger you have, please release. Whatever blame I have, I release.

Thank you.

I love you and I let you go.

I love you and I let you go.

I love you.

I let you go.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

India 9 Burning Cup In My Lap

With her flowing current, I hoped the Ganges would somehow redeem and purify me. I hunched over, my curved back shielding the ceremony from the surrounding cackles and laughter of my tour group. Too much had been splayed open over the past eight months; I needed to sew it back up amidst the frivolity. Possessions spread over two apartments, bank accounts scrutinized by a judge, a mother-in-law who wrote to me on my anniversary, 

“If you want to travel, take a vacation. Don’t end your marriage.”

With some semblance of privacy, I faced the river, the burning cup in my lap, ring and vows in hand. I settled into where I was, resigning myself to the lack of seclusion. I had done something similar once on a bright March day in Wisconsin.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)

India 8 Divorce Vows

 The sitar’s high-pitched plucks were the only sound as our boat glided toward an outer bank that looked like a ribbon resting along India’s girth. Night turned the Ganges from brown to black, and Varanasi’s lights became fireflies in the dark.

In the pocket of my jeans were two things: the ring that had been feeling smaller with each passing day and each advancing adventure, and a slip of paper—a eulogy. It was a departure from the vows promised to husband and God seven and a half years earlier. Divorce vows to be read aloud to ring and river. This little leaf plate with the small dancing flame would be the funeral pyre for my marriage.

By Kristin Zibell  (to be continued)