Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke
Dear Soul Mate/Side Kick/Spiritual Partner,
I’ve been extremely patient.
Really. I’ve been so patient, I think I deserve a trophy or a crown or the keys to the city. Something.
And while I’ve been watching out for you – that immediately recognizable mug – that warm laugh, that spot-on sense of the ridiculousness of life – that ability to electrify me with the sound of your voice, I’ve patiently and diligently dealt with a whole slew of men who weren’t relationship material, so I could ready myself for something real, something deep, something wonderful. With you.
I’ve wrestled with uncommitted boyfriends, horn-dogs, and friends-with-benefits. I’ve counseled broken-down divorced men and survivors of sexual abuse. I’ve dated liars and cheats.
You name it, I’ve chosen it from the menu of life.
To be honest, my love life’s basically been an underwhelming cavalcade of maybe. And no. And, oh, god, no.
And I realize a big part of that is on me.
Blessed are those who can both give and receive.
For a long time, my receiver was out of whack. I was great at giving to others, but receiving? Not so much. I now know that we pull into our orbit exactly what we think of ourselves in our most quiet, personal, dark moments. And I admit, I’ve often loved the idea of someone more than the reality.
So I needed some time.
I needed to become the person I was looking for.
Unfortunately, along the way, I got some not-so-great advice.
I was warned against choosing a relationship over my work as an artist. (Why, I ask you, did I have to choose? Do any men you know have to make that choice?)
And, as I aged, I noticed that younger women I knew hadn’t gotten that memo.
They wrote novels and had babies and took tenure-track jobs; all with their husbands strolling along side them.
I once told a man who loved me madly that I couldn’t stay with him because “I wanted to be young.” I was 26 and he was 40. I still needed time to stretch my legs, to explore, fly. I wasn’t wrong to want that at that age. Yet, he was ready to nest.
So, he found someone else not long after we broke up, and had a baby on the way within days of getting married.
That may have been my only chance at the possibility of having a child and I showed it the door, half a lifetime ago. (Operative words: may have been. No guarantees.)
Ask. Believe. Receive.
Still, I refuse to look back with regret. My choices made me who I am. And I know what I want.
I simply don’t accept that all that is open and hilarious and whip-smart and lovely within me can’t find a confidant, foil, agent provocateur, comrade in arms, and twin-flame.
I’ve felt you, coming toward me, for years.
I hear the gravel of the trail under your feet as you hike toward the summit. I feel you making yourself at home within these four walls. I see myself throwing my head back, laughing, my dog taking laps in the backyard while we sit in the spa and watch the moon float above us.
I feel the tenderness, the gentleness of your spirit.
You calm me down. Your presence fills me with wonder.
I was assured when I started to practice Buddhism, almost 29 years ago, that no prayer goes unanswered.
Well, I’m ready for an answer, dear one.
So, I’m requesting a response.
Drop me a line when you have a minute. Give me a call. You know how to find me. I know you do.
I need to see your face.
The sooner, the better.
© 2014 Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved
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2 thoughts on “Where the Hell Are You?”
Let me know when you find the right recipe, sister. I need it, rather desperately.
Will do. Will do.