Purpose, Devotion and the Divine.

It’s hard being in love with someone you’re no longer with.

And it’s not just that.

Because of my faith, my principles, and my own beliefs, I will never have another relationship like that again—never another intimate bond as a lover or a husband. Since I was a child, that was my dream. And for a brief, sacred span of time, it was real.

Jeff and I didn’t rush into marriage. We didn’t run off for a quick license or treat it lightly. We were engaged for nearly four years before we wed because I believed—and still believe—that marriage is holy. One and done. Sacred. Eternal.

To me, marriage was the hearth fire of life. In our tradition, the hearth fire is the center of everything. It is warmth. It is kinship. It is the bond that gives meaning to the world. It’s the place where you touch something greater than yourself through another soul.

Now, without it, my home feels cold.

I miss my marriage in ways I can’t even fully name. It was where I was priest, lover, and warrior all at once. Now, my house feels more like a storage unit—four walls, but no fire at the center.

And it’s not just about missing love. Even my connection to the divine feels more distant. When Jeff and I were together, my faith was lived out through him and with him. For those of us in the pan-polytheistic tradition, love itself is sacred worship. Our faith is not focused on what comes after, but on the here and now—on community, kinship, and the living experience of the holy in each other.

Marriage is not just a contract. It is the living hearth flame—the union where devotion, faith, and love meet.

Without it, even my shrine feels cold. I light the candles. I keep the altar. But it isn’t the same. Because a hearth was never meant to burn alone.

And no—no one could ever “replace” Jeff. I am still wildly in love with him, even through all the heartbreak. Even if I could remarry within my faith, I wouldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because it wasn’t just about having someone—it was about him.

It was also through serving him—in love and in the divine—that I found the strength and ability to care for myself.

When I was with him, even my health and well-being had purpose. When I exercised, rested, or healed, it wasn’t just for me—it was in service of the “us.” It didn’t feel selfish. It felt right. It felt holy. Caring for myself was an act of devotion to our shared life, a way to ensure that I could be there for him, better, stronger, and whole.

Now? I can meet basic survival needs, but anything beyond that feels empty. I have no fire for it. I have no desire for a long life lived only for myself. Because for me, life was never about self alone—it was about devotion. About union. About being both servant and beloved, not as a slave, but as a devotee.

When I had that, I had purpose.

Now that it’s gone, I feel untethered.

And gods… I am so tired of being alone.

My marriage was the fire that made everything else bearable. It gave meaning to the endless labor of life, to the 9-to-5 grind, to the thousand little battles. Through that fire, I touched the divine. Through him, I found my strength and my will to keep building, keep fighting, keep growing.

Without it, the world feels transactional. Hollow.

I miss the warmth.

I miss the fire.

I miss him.

And I don’t know if anything else will ever burn that bright again.

Dusty Ray (?)