HEAT of the HEART

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After four marriages and several boyfriends, you might think I’ve had enough love=making in my life, but it ain’t so! I separated from my last husband in 1998, and subsequently lived with my new boyfriend Steve for a year, 2004-2005. Since then, no boyfriends (although at-tempt-ed:), an occasional lover thrown in.

Years of not feeling the heat of a man sleeping butt to butt with me, I languish in a super soft set of mossy-mint green sheets that feel like warm baby alpaca as I crawl between them during the cold of winter. Definately not sufficient!

Although I dance four nights a week, it is rare that I feel an attraction to a man that meets my hopes, until of late where 2 Latinos have turned me on while dancing bachata. Pablo has flirted with me, saying, “I have never made love with a slender woman”, as he clasps his rugged arm tight around my waist. I reply, “Let’s have lunch so we can get to know each other better.” The phone does not ring; sparks flying, never landing, between intermittent trips home to Panama.

More recently, Puerto Rican David has danced so close that I give him my card, and he does call; but there is no phone number given where I can reach for him. Another month goes by where I do not see him out.

Then, two days before christmas 2011, while ringing the salvation army bells in front of Northside Beverage, David flies out the door, wine in hand, hearing my voice, he swings around and crushes me with a hug that is warm enough to be felt through my thick winter coat. His cologne hangs onto me, as do his brown eyes that stare into mine. A glint travels between us as he makes sure that he will see me Tuesday for salsa.

That same day I am leaving my credit union, and Pablo is facing me with open arms, that hold me long, feeling his arms slide up and down my back as he keeps me close. He’ll be back from Panama in two weeks, he says before we kiss each other’s lips, a first, and too quick.

Watching a news magazine that evening about the centuries old monastery Mount Athos, Greece, there is an in depth interview with several monks about how they spend their day: praying ‘father have mercy on me’ as they work, eating 2 meals a day while only allowing 10 minutes to chew down their food. Those interviewed say they don’t wish to leave and want to die there, while I am wondering if they ever think of sex. No questions asked about that; so I ask myself, are they homosexuals in hiding?

Today is the day after christmas, and I am reading when I answer my cell phone with “Jimmy” lit up on the screen. Surprised is puttin’ it as if being hit by the new year’s eve Times Square falling ball. This is the man that stood me up on a planned date in august and also was my lover briefly over a year ago. He tells me that he has me on his mind so much that he had to call, and that he likes “the energy” we have between us…this inexplicable CONNECTION he capitalizes later in his email. I ought not be amazed at this point in my middle-aged life that I had emailed him a couple days prior to his phone call (says he had not read) after no communication since august when he was too afraid to answer my emails inquiring if he was all right. He’s not; he stands me up again on new years eve. I don’t cry. I understand. I enjoy argentine tango’s embrace in a stunning dress.

HEAT II

It’s new year’s eve day (2011) at the Kwik Fill Gas station, when I hear shouting, “I love your license plate, we’re crybabies!” CRYBABE reads my license plate. I turn around, to see a gray-bearded man leaning out his window, maybe an older teen daughter sitting in the passenger seat. I reply with delight, “I’m not a crybaby, I’m a crybabe!” laughing with the feeling of heat filling my cold hands and cheeks, realizing that men are becoming proud of their vulnerability! As I drive away I’m aware that I’m still smiling.

Then, the day after new years, I am at the Mate Factor, a cozy cafe where a fireplace radiates flames of blue, red and orange that can’t compare to the heat I feel rising in my chest, as a man walks over to me, only a railing between us. He smiles, “You’re the woman that writes books about crying aren’t you? I’m Tim.”

“Yes,” as my blue eyes light up like those fireplace blue flames, which become steadfast to his as this thirty-something man continues, “I’m regretting that I held back some of my tears at the movie I just saw. I was too concerned about the people around me. I didn’t have anything to wipe my tears so I walked to the side aisle, took off my shirt and my t-shirt, so I could use it to blow my nose and wipe my tears.”

“WOW!! that’s awesome!” I reply, not caring who hears us, in fact wanting my new date to hear, or anyone else who cares to listen. “Good for you! that you intuit what your heart and body needs.”

“I didn’t used to be able to cry, now I can, I know it’s good for me”, says Tim.
My heart is piping hot with the heat of love-shared. It may sound silly, but whenever I cry, which happens close to daily now, my hands become warm.

My new year (2012) has begun like a sandwich, new years day sliced between encounters with 2 men: strangers spontaneously connecting with me because they have opened their hearts to tears, on the days before and after new years day. Like a double scoop of my favorite Death by Chocolate ice cream on a summer’s day, I am happily melting (synchronistically) by the warmth of more and more men who are accepting, dare I say proud, of their vulnerability that is valiant, and vigorous.

A valentine of real love before february!

GOOD ADVICE

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Sy,(editor of the SUN magazine)

I sent out an email to all my immediate family members, maybe 13, asking what good advice they have received or would like to give. Two weeks go by without any responses.

Therefore, I am falling back on what I remember my special dad saying,
“I won’t give you any advice unless you ask for it.”

I’ll add one piece of advice my mother gave me that I am glad I followed: Stand and sit up straight,” even though I am a woman standing out at 5’9”.

My favorite peace of advice is from Washington Irving:
“There is sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief…and unspeakable LOVE.”

Coming in as a close second is heard from Einstein:

“The intuitive mind is a sacred gift, and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.”

And in conclusion, I must quote Rumi, 13th century poet:

“Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

Haven’t they created a perfect circle?

Sighing, Sincerely,
Dianea, whose license plate is CRYBABE,
Licensed MFT (Marriage and Family Therapist)

Hope this makes you smile

whispering to listen to

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Lately, I am aware of voices in my head, saying call so and so, or have such and such for lunch while I am reading a book I want to be reading. It surprises me the contents of these reminders as I am enjoying the book. Like, you need to call your daughter about her fear to see her sister naked. She is having anxiety attacks recently, and I sense her need to be freer of her childhood fears. Another voice whispers, “Be careful, Be patient.”

Reading Gail Hornstein’s book, Agnes Jacket, and her interview in the July 2011 SUN magazine, encourages a long-standing whisper that schizophrenics can be helped with psychotherapy, unlike most of present American psychiatry believes. As a child, I rode to the Binghamton State Hospital one hour away, every month, with my mother at the wheel, my grandmother beside her. My mother’s brother Victor has been ‘living’ there since age 19, having been paranoid that his family was poisoning him. During our lunches together, between his mutterings about something we did not understand, there were some conversations that totally made sense, like a leaf changing color in fall. Like my mother, I became a nurse, and continued to visit my institutionalized uncle, sometimes inviting him to my married home for lunch.

After becoming a psychotherapist, I visited him a few times at a group home for the mentally disabled, after the institutions freed their long term chronic patients, ‘well’ medicated. One time, I questioned him (just now I searched through MY old notebooks of family history…searching for my visit to Uncle Victor, living at Oakland Manor, Weedsport, NY. After looking through several notebooks, a whisper advised me to look into my father’s file.) I remembered I had written notes on a yellow legal pad, my ‘interview’ with Uncle Victor, out of curiosity. Now I’m reading that it was April 21, 1991 when he was 75. WOW! I whispered loudly, having found what I was looking for immediately after the faint reminder-whisper in my mind.

My notes say that I asked him, “What do you remember about your childhood?” “Very fussy parents,” is his first response. Adding, “They want us to be as old as they are.” Victor graduated at age 15 from high school, smart; now he recollected family events accurately that I had heard from my mother and grandmother, in between other whispers that made no sense to me. At this moment, I am amazed as I read his awarenesses, “I was afraid to bother father,” and “people were less verbal years ago.” I am saddened then and more so now that I was not able to say ‘I love you’ to him, tears now ringing those words as true.
So unlike, the cell phone call I answered last week, “I am in the library, I have to whisper.” My ‘son’ replies, “I love you, call me when you can talk.”

Synchronously, a month ago, I engaged a monument company to design a grave marker for my Uncle Victor and Uncle Ralph; both died within the same week of October 1996, alone, my mother being their only loving caregiver. She was unable to create headstones before her death, so now I am saying I love them the only way I can.

“A whisper can be a shot of memory…EVOLving.”…dianea kohl

CAN WE PROMISE LOVE?

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PROMISES

I don’t remember making promises except on rare occasions…as I realize I did not promise to marry ‘til death do us part’ except maybe for my first marriage, when I said “I do.” Luckily, I never promised to obey in 1969, but granted “I will try to obey,” which makes me smile a near laugh, as I write this. One promise is outstanding to me.

It is while sitting in the Elmira high school auditorium next to my two teenage daughters, listening to their father (then divorced due to him coming out as gay) sing magnificently, “The Impossible Dream” that I make a very clear promise, like a low-flying plane dragging a huge-lettered message of advertisement to sunny-beach-goers below, to mySELF. I am a newly graduated (1985) Marriage and Family Therapist sobbing. I am aware of a huge audience surrounding me, hearing my breath-filled sobs and blowing of my nose. Yet, I promise to my self, I will never again be embarrassed of my tears…I had connected in a heart-felt way; tears are healing as sunshine.

As we walk out of the auditorium into the lobby at the finish of Man of La Mancha…a man I had never met before walks up to me and says, “You are stunning.” I am shocked with happiness that my eyes have been so clearly seen.

Now it is August 2011, and I am looking forward to a date with Jimmy, to whom I am very attracted, since we met at a ballroom dance weekend a couple of years ago. We “made love” a couple of times, more than a year ago, after which he broke us off. After I spontaneously appeared at his door this past June, being in Syracuse for a meeting at Syracuse University, one hour from where I live in Ithaca, he emailed me that he wished he hadn’t had company and that we could have had lunch together that day. He went on and on about how great I looked and how he wanted to get together for dinner and catch up on our lives. We spoke on the phone a couple of times before we decided on our date for Friday night, after telling me about how he can’t keep a straight face at his dance lesson of the Paso Doble, where he eventually breaks down laughing. I think to myself, I bet I know why, because he has admitted to his childhood fear of his father and now his dance partner has put on a face of anger, part of the role in this dance.

He tells me on Friday afternoon to call him after my 4pm client, to make final plans where to meet. “I do.” I get his voicemail and leave a sweet message. An hour goes by. I call and leave another message just after 5pm. Another hour goes by. I leave a concerned message just after 6pm. I wait until after 7:30pm, and realize I have been ‘stood up’. And, although I cry easily these days, I felt no need for tears. No sign of anger.

Two more weeks have gone by and I have not heard back from him, although I wrote a caring email and called his work, finding out he is okay, when the girl states that he is not in yet. It is my birthday today, and I wish I was celebrating with him; I sense the presence of the scared little boy inside Jimmy, sadly with no room for Tears for Fears.

BEST FEELINGS ARRIVE UNEXPECTANTLY

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The BEST FEELING in the World

Dear SUN (magazine):
Is it your warmth on my skin that is the best feeling? Or that you bring light after darkness, always there for me, and the world?

HOW can I name ONE BEST feeling? I need to count the ways down to it.
First thought: I’m 16, climbing the cellar stairs when I think to my self; I am an individual in my own right, not a part of another spirit or being. I try to express my warm-all-over feeling to my loving father as I reach the kitchen, with a mind of explosion.

Next: I’m 10, when a heart-felt knowing pushed into my chest like cupid’s arrow. I know the religious dogma that I must accept jesus as my savior in order to go to heaven and not to hell is not true! Still, it was not until I let go at age 38, in 1984 (how Orwellian) that I was feeling the best freedom ever.

I’m 22: walking down the aisle, with my hand intertwining daddy’s arm. I’m that beautiful virgin-bride seen by a large church-community, as my husband’s luscious tenor voice sings “Ich Liebe Dich,” to me.

I’m 24: holding my firstborn, Erin in my arms, seeing her large great toes, soft as every other perfect part.

I’m 27: experiencing natural childbirth of my second daughter Megan, (assisted by Dr.Harry Roach – yes, that’s his real name), who readily nurses as we lay on the delivery table. I proudly walk out of the delivery room with Megan in my arms AMA, (against medical advice) along with her daddy. I am an RN who likes quiet: the bright light of my daughter’s eyes, her dainty perfect fingers holding my breast, nursing in our bed together. At home.
I’m 28: my husband comes out as gay and leaves me to experience another man, like me, a virgin who is free to experience other lovers, unconsciously hoped for.

I’m 29: dancing the hustle, finally letting go of “thou shalt not dance” from my mother’s condemnation of worldly pursuits. Suits me just fine!
I’m 36: in sandals, and white dress bought by daddy a couple months before he died suddenly from a heart attack at age 60. It could be worn to a garden party, like at NY Treman State Park, where I walked on grass to the music of a waterfall, being wedded to my second husband, Reid, an astronomer like my daddy.

I’m 39: I’ve run 36 marathons in 36 months, a national women’s record, because I needed to clearly see my own goodness. As an average runner, I felt crazy to be ‘hitting the wall’ at mile 20, why wasn’t I listening to my body?
And, I hear myself saying to the audience, “I thank my daddy for his lovingness, and belief in me,” as I receive my Master’s degree as a Marriage and Family Therapist.
I’m 40: at my birthday lakeside campfire, a single parent, hearing from another, “It helps to know children can learn different ways to be in the world by having two loving homes with different rules.”

I’m 49: while running, 3 titles come to me: TEARS ARE TRUTH…waiting to be spoken, TEARS ARE TRUST…waiting to be felt, TEARS ARE TRUE LOVE…waiting to be known. I’m surprised to EVOLve into a writer, after receiving 65 in English from Cornell University.
I’m 50: feeling increasingly hopeful at the Primal Center, while crying deeply for a year, creating a new-found openness and trust in my heart, after marrying my soulmate, my fourth husband, Gregory.

I’m 52: Denali, my first granddaughter calls me in NY from California, (she called her mom in Baltimore to get my number) asking me to tell grandma Ruth to let her cry, not send her to her room until she can stop crying, which makes me feel estatic.
I’m 53: TEARS ARE TRUTH…waiting to be spoken is self-published…saying, “I’m afraid to stand up here and speak,” in Barnes &Noble at my first book signing.

I’m 55: I see the word LOVE mirrored in the word EVOLution, truly jumping for joy!
I’m 56: at daughter Megan’s wedding, she being 5 month’s pregnant, both of us without shame! She in a white dress. Later, holding one leg as her husband Ben holds the other, Megan pushing Riley Shea into the world, hearing her best first breath, and mine of connected-ness. After a lifetime, my mother finally tells me “I love you,” February 15th, 2002, a few months before she dies at age 80, those same words on her last breath.
I’m 57: I see mirrored in the word EVOLution: kNOw-IT-U-LOVE: I scream outloud!
I’m 59: Denali is 12, staying overnight with me. I find the note she wrote me at 10pm that night a few days later: “I know I’m supposed to be asleep but I needed to write this to tell you how greatful I am to have you as my grandma. Thank you so much for everything you do to help me. Lots of love, Denali.” Appreciated is an understatement.

I’m 60: crying at orgasm, his eyes holding and completely accepting me.

I’m 61: TEARS ARE TRUST….waiting to be known is published and receives the USA Best Books Award as a finalist in the mental health category.

I’m 63: Emily’s jumping into my arms when I come to visit, her first words, “How is your leg, Didi?” (My grandma name) She’s my third granddaughter, age 5.

I’m 65: It’s my birthday, and my first look out my kitchen window surprises me with a hummingbird floating from a Petunia blossom to look straight into my face before flying off. It is two hours later, and I’m looking out the dining room window as a hummingbird backs out of a wild Touch-Me-Not and rises to look at me straight in the eyes! It felt like both of my parents were there to hold me in their love, as it is rare to see a hummingbird, let alone have one come and look at me straight away!

That was August 30th 2011, then on September 24th, while reading The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, it is surprising to read, on page 111: “Paul ate them (wild strawberries) by fistfuls, juice running down his wrists. Two hawks circled lazily in the deep blue sky. Didi, Paul said, lifting a chubby arm to point.” I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. Didi is the name given to me first by my best friend Tanya’s son Lukie when he was very little. I had never heard this name before, nor seen it written, so is this the best feeling of connected-closeness-oneness of LOVE?

WARNING SIGNS of LOVE

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WARNING SIGNS

Next month (august 2011), I am expected to sign up for Medicare; I had no warning that I’d feel so young. Despite forgetting my purse at the Laundromat last week, my memory snapped in ten minutes later, just as I arrived home. I called Pete’s, who owns the Laundromat. The girl on the phone said she’d send someone across the street to “see if it’s there,” adding, “Call back in 5 minutes.” I quickly reply, “I’m driving there now.”

I trust my purse is safe. I may be praying. When I arrived, Pete’s had retrieved it! Reassured again, I can trust the Design of the Universe to love me.

I remember back to my lake house, when I’m nigh unto 40 years old, looking for my car keys, finally seeing them in my left hand. That memory consoles me, as does me leaving my wallet on the top of my Camaro, driving off, later finding it along the side of the highway. Another near-forty memory comforts me.

Alzheimer’s media constantly warns of signs of memory loss; yet I am still (should I be?) amazed how sharp my memory is while executing my four-days-a-week job as a psychotherapist. Just the other day I marvel, to feel the touch down of a mosquito on my forearm, without seeing it happen.

Also, I wonder at my easy flow of tears since the early 90s, whereas beforehand I held them back, like a mother refusing to push her baby out, embarrassed, while reassuring myself of my inner strength.

For the past three to four years, a raised brown pigment has grown on my right cheek; two years ago a dermatologist at a nudist camp told me it was not cancerous, “nothing to worry about.” Over one month ago, my granddaughter showed concern, suggesting I see a doctor-type. About a week later, I noticed that the spot had become flat; I had tried to scratch off its layers for many months. It kept rearing its brown head. Now it was flat?
At the next weekly dinner with my daughter and granddaughter, I point out the disappeared spot, now flat, even creamy like the rest of my cheek. She asks, “What did you do?”

“Nothing different, it must be my tears have finally cured it.” They both smile that I know mom smile. Aware they know that tears break open cracks of our hearts, like wildflowers growing out of rock faces, making more room for love. It must BE true; no new diet, no new creams on my face, no new nothing.

My healing feels like this morning; taking a break from reading “The Help” to talk to my kitty of five years, Radiance, lying on the other side of the porch. We live alone. I am feeling a bit guilty as I ask, “You get enough attention from your mama?” when a tear out of nowhere appears and dances down my now smooth cheek.

SAYING TOO MUCH

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Last Saturday, 5 days ago, I was driving in Ithaca, NY and stopped for a red light. I was feeling exceedingly pleased with the abundance of green leaves, red bud trees, and various beautiful flowers planted all through my fair city. (May has to be my favorite month of the year!) When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw a couple wiry gray hairs sticking upright from the top of my head, and decided I must pull them out. As 76 year-old Shirley MacLaine writes, I am trying to get over my vanity. As I approach 65, I still muster a brunette head due to my mother’s gift of her genes, she being eighty with maybe a dozen gray hairs. I fool myself into wanting to honor her gift.

I pluck out one of the two 5-6 inch gray hairs and fling it out the window, followed by the second. It must have been a few minutes later, when I look left out my window and see these same gray hairs clinging to the window as I drive along. WOW! I say out loud, thinking the root must BE really sticky to be able to cling to the window as the wind blows it like a wave of the ocean, pounding the window. I am even more amazed when I am driving 40-50 mph toward my country renovated chicken coupe home.

Next to my bed, the window shelf holds 4-5 books that I am alternatingly reading, one being “The Art of Kissing,” picked up from a used book library sale, and that I have periodically opened, months, maybe years in between. That same gray-hair-plucking-Saturday, who knows why I picked it up again, admitting to myself this is a foolish, yet inviting book, as I have not been kissed, really kissed, passionately that is in months, slightly embarrassed to have been by a married man that I do love. This book states, “Kissing Tip…For talking and kissing, try the Chico Marx technique. When replying to his wife, who caught him kissing a chorus girl, he said, I wasn’t kissing her. I was whispering in her mouth.”

I notice that I feel embarrassed to be admitting these vanities; but then some of my family members tell me I say too much, when I write books about my personal journey, which of course includes them. Being a psychotherapist I value vulnerability like some value a multi-million dollar lottery ticket. Only my ticket is for the evolving-love train I wish to be on. SO, I must practice what I preach. I like to think I am like those gray hairs that continued to stick to my jeep’s window for another few days, even through a thunderstorm.

laughter with love by cheap thrills?

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I am late with my March essay. I didn’t know what to write about until today. Soon, you will realize or maybe be thrilled by why.

March 31st, 10pm, I call up my older daughter Erin, to tell her that my apartment was burglarized, my computer and TV snatched. She answers with neutrality, “You have property insurance, yes?” I am a bit disappointed not to hear, I’m sorry, but keep my own neutrality in check, and go on to say something like I’ve always kept my doors open for decades, and this surprises me, out here in the country. Then, I spring, “April Fools!”
Erin annoyingly retorts, “It’s not April Fools day yet!”…of course I am pleased, as I say, “That makes it even more fun; it’s only 2 hours from now”

I have been the prankster on April Fools day for many years, so my daughter’s are especially onto me, so when I call my younger daughter, Megan, the next day and get her voice mail, I say, “Megan, please call me, I have something important to tell you.” Later that day, I receive her voice mail that goes something like, “Mom, you can’t fool me! Don’t even try! I know its April Fool’s day!” So, I don’t, but think to myself, I’ll call tomorrow and play the trick!

That day, I drive five hours to the board meeting of the IPA (International Primal Association), of which I am the secretary, and it is a working-board weekend. When I arrive, I greet everyone, give and receive hugs, and then go out to my car for more preparations. About 10 of the board members are socializing when I return, in a large sunny room of Sandy’s home in the woods. I shout, “I have an announcement!” Everyone turns my way as I say with glee, “I am engaged!” Everyone starts clapping, and I can still see Larry’s huge smile as his large beautiful hands clap vigorously. After enjoying the applause I shout, “April Fool!” They laugh as I feel their love.

When I return home on April 3rd, there is still no SUN magazine in my mailbox and this magazine usually arrives before the first of the month. It is the only magazine I read cover to cover. It moves me to inspiration and connectedness with its personal stories and interviews of people less known that are changing the world. I wait a couple more days before I check my subscription online, and it was renewed in January for 2 years. I wait two more days, still no magazine. This amazing magazine has no advertisements and is not cheap I think to myself…the magazine still has not arrived and today is the 11th…but cyberspace did return my email saying the SUN would arrive in a couple of weeks…no explanation, no sorry, cheap (April) trick!

RUMORS OF LOVE

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It is president’s day 2011…and I feel present to the rumor dispelled yesterday. My ex-husband Gregory now lives with his elderly parents in their home in Oxford, NY. Gregory had been angry with me for leaving in 1998, after he dropped out of therapy.
By 2006, Gregory had felt my continued love sent out thru a couple cards or birthday calls each year, finally granting me a divorce, becoming my friend, being very appreciative of me. Still, he told me that his parents did not like me, and I was not welcome to visit them, and he was even afraid to tell them of our renewed loveship. (Isn’t this a kind of relationship? ) Were these rumors or roomers?

I’d like to think that this CRYBABE-license-plate-therapist could have a sense of humor! Even when she caught her dance heel in her partner’s shoelace last Saturday night, and fell on her bum, thumb and sprained her 4th right hand finger…she continued to dance with partner’s who agreed to use her wrist, instead of her right-partner-hand. Even with her two fingers wrapped in white tape, held in the air like a surrender flag.

The next morning, my hand was swollen and sore to the touch, so I knew I would have to leave Sunday’s day of dancing at the Dance Flurry held one-weekend a year in Saratoga Springs, where over a dozen different kinds of dancing happens simultaneously in various huge rooms, each with LIVE music! Although I was disappointed, I left with a rumor in my heart that this sunny day would provide something special, like a spontaneous visit to Gregory who lived only 12 miles off my route home to Ithaca. I left two voice mails without reply; knowing then I might meet up with his parents, whom I had not seen in 15 years, with an uninvited rumor in my head. I keep thinking of a roomer I had in my last home, who left unexpectedly, because I insisted she dump the week’s compost (and other shared-chores) as she had agreed to. Was I going to dump my plans to visit unexpectedly because of Gregory’s rumor? Not a chance!

I parked next door to the Race’s home, walked to the front door, rang the doorbell, not knowing what to expect. I was surprised my heart was calm, the roomer of fear leaving because I wanted love to move back in. Gregory had told me that his mother was experiencing some dementia these days. Yet, when she opened the door, she redily said, “Come in.” In the entrance hallway is a table with framed photos and a dozen red roses; they had just celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary. Mrs. Race showed me their wedding photo, adding stories of their beginnings and her own mother and aunt. I asked about her three other children. Mr. Race finally shuffled down the hallway to talk with me, saying he was putting a family history together for generations to come. He had given me away at our wedding, so I was more than pleased (does that mean enthusiastic?) that I felt welcome, in my coat, standing in the hallway for close to a half hour, Mom Race hugging me goodbye, adding “I’ll tell Gregory you were here.”

BEing awARE is the key to LOVE

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PAYING ATTENTION

It is 1/11/11, so I leave a voicemail to remind my new ‘guyfriend’ Briant of our ONEness. Later, I am reflecting back on my voicemail, where I tell him about my visit to see my near thirty-year friend Tanya and her 11 year old son Lukie after I had left Briant’s place on Sunday.

Before Briant left for work at 9am, he brought me a glass of aloe-fruit juice, and told me there was some buckwheat hot cereal on the stove for me when I chose to get up. He kissed me good bye as I lay snuggled in his bed sheets, as he says, “You can stay if you want.” We had slept together, gently touching during sleep, a making love. No sex.
After dozing, and reading for a while, I notice that I feel the energy to leave, to drive the near 5 hour distance home. I am paying attention to a new calmness in my body. I want to stay and BE with Briant….yet want to hear, “I’d like you to stay.” He had driven us to Rockefeller Center the night before, and then to dancing ballroom, salsa and hustle, not laying our tired bodies down until near 3am. I knew Briant would be tired when he arrived home this evening after work, it would be hard to be present for me. For us.

I wouldn’t see or talk much with Briant for the next two weeks…we are not phone-people. Still, the energy felt right to leave, quietly happy that I’m not needing/depending on a man like I used to, yet felt love for him.

Leaving provided an opportunity to stop at Tanya’s on my way home; it was beginning to snow when I approached her exit off route 17, the car driving it self right on by. I kept thinking I need to visit; it has been too long since we have connected by phone or visit, as Tanya isolates herself, feeling depressed and overwhelmed by her responsibilities of full-time job, her son, and an unhappy marriage.

The snow stops flying and my car drives an extra 8 mile detour to Tanya’s over snow-laden back country hills and valleys, where 30-40mph speed is necessary. I pray not to slide off the road. I had left a voicemail about a half hour earlier that I was stopping by to visit. When I stepped on the porch, and had barely opened the door, Lukie springs his arms around me with the force of an excited dog, happy to see its master. “I am so glad to see you Didi!!” he exclaimed with ecstatic joy I had not felt in months. I was very surprised, soaking his words in like a well-rubbed Velveteen Rabbit.

Lukie shares his planetary project for school with me, as well as his catalog of antique light globes; he is a big collector of antique signs like those from old gas stations. His enthusiasm brims over me like melting chocolate-nut ice cream, my favorite. Luke also articulates his mother’s “exhaustion” out loud as Tanya expresses, “I feel like a victim, at work.” I can’t help but notice Luke’s lips purposely speaking greater than his 11 years, seeing his worry and desire to help his mother.

I suggest that Luke stay with me some weekend, hearing loudly, “I’d love that Didi!”
Tanya replies, “Chuck (his dad) won’t allow that.”

I smile, “I will put out loving energy, anyway Chuck talks to me friendlier lately.”
“I love the environment and antiques where you live Didi. I’d love to come.”
As I put my coat on to leave, my heart leaps again as I hear, “I will stay in touch Didi, even if my mom doesn’t.” Luke wraps his arms around me again with the firmness of a bear hug, repeating “I’m so glad to see you Didi!”

As I voicemail Briant, “There’s nothing like the love of a child,” tears choke (cloak) my words with more clear love.