December 29, 2010

"Space"


On the verge of yet another breakdown, I sat at my desk and stared at my books. Since my ex had moved out two days before, I’d discovered my library fills twelve shelves when it used to bulge from only six. This house now has a dress closet and an office all my own, and I wonder where he kept his stuff because my stuff seems so organic, it’s hard to believe this space was ever shared. But that’s what happened when I eliminated a person and his things; my Self stretched and shifted, growing pains and all.

Tears in my eyes, I felt the quick, heavy breathing beginning to catch in my throat again; the uncontrollable sobbing like a child, the hiccupping which heralds my routine cycle of depressed anxiety. And rather than let go into that ‘poor me’ chasm, I said a prayer instead. It was a prayer without words—an intention, really—and for once, I didn’t cave in on myself. I raised my head and opened my eyes. The Secret, a book I don’t remember buying or receiving, was there on the shelf begging to be read.

So I did. I read and I read until I came to the following quote: “All that we are is a result of what we have thought” (Budha). And it occurred to me that my entire life has been a choice—a manifestation of intentions, which have resulted in decisions, which have ended up forming my present situation. I am not a single thirty-six year old divorcee after seven years of marriage by accident. Instead, I chose, and those choices originated from ideas, and those ideas came from dreams.

The dream I had when I got married is different from the one I have now, which is how I evolved from a person whose nevers informed her decisions (never ask for money, never have kids, never depend on a man) to a person whose imagination has taken over. My most recent dream was of a quiet space and time to know myself, which is exactly what I have right now. I have freedom to come and go as I please, to write and read whenever I want, to be lazy and to be elated.

But I’m afraid of this complete aloneness. And the guy I was seeing ditched me twice. I don’t want to need anyone, don’t want to depend on anyone, but these tears have to do with him, too. Maybe I need training wheels before I can really be alone.



I hadn’t seen him since that last supper with the pictures of my food, at least three weeks prior. Vocal silence had filled the space between. Texts and emails went back and forth at a pace of about one per week, but by the end of it I was emotionally spent and had resolved to let him go.

That is, until that morning. Reflecting on the lessons of The Secret, I realized I had manifested Him into my life. I went on match.com. I saw his picture; I even emailed him first. The only reason he existed in my world was because I had called him into being. And when I listened to my most inner wisdom—that voice that knows and innately understands things without explanation, I knew it wasn’t over between us at all. But if he’s going to be in my life, I told myself, he must show up for me.



Later that day I was sitting at lunch with my girlfriend, and my back was facing the entrance because I didn’t want anything to distract me from focusing on our conversation. She began to say ‘hello’ to someone and I turned my head. It was Him. And whereas he usually doesn’t say hello at all, claiming to be a ‘ninja,’ he sat and chatted for a while.

I didn’t know he would kiss me ‘hello’ as if no time had passed, or that I’d affirm that was still welcome to the party I was throwing that evening—a sort of ‘coming home’ thing to mark my new beginning in what he called “a re-warmed house.” I didn’t know he would show up with a pan of homemade lasagna, or hang out all night, or be one of the very last to leave. But these things happened, and show up for me he did. Twice.



Which brings me to my next challenge: how do I balance all the things I want—those things I’m sure I deserve and can handle—with the present moment? How do I live without stressing about what’s coming while enjoying this space I’ve filled up? And how do I navigate between this knowing and unknowing?

I think the answer is that I must have faith. If I don’t trust each moment is entirely perfect, I might miss out on the lessons I’m supposed to learn because I’m too distracted by the past or the present. I must do my best to release my expectations and regrets, focusing the best I can on this nowness.

I can have all I dream of: a lover, babies, a way to get paid through my writing, and a body that can process all the difficulties that will undoubtedly come. But to get there, I must have this time with him, balanced out with myself and my friends and my work. I must have this space—this autonomy and freedom—these things I’ve never really had before, so I can figure out how to be with just me.