An Uncommon Bond Page 12
And not to entirely pathologize my wanting. There was a more symbolic meaning to it as well. My yearning was a reflection of the fertility of the connection itself, one where our souls had been impregnated with each other’s love. Where before my capacity to love was embryonic, now our twin souls were being birthed inside of me, co-creators dancing in possibility and burgeoning with life. Even in our darkest, most conflicted places, there was an abundance of fecundity in the field between us. Our shared aliveness was spilling over at the seams. How to let that die?
Twin Blames
The baby debate reopened the door to Sarah’s engulfment issues. Triggered by the fear that she would have no way out, she began pushing me away, leaving for hours at a time, picking little fights, talking about going home again. Again, I resisted my tendency to go to war. I continued to hold to the love, to see the fights as false fronts, to keep my focus on the connection beneath, to keep my heart open.
But my patience only stoked her. After a few reactive days, she went after my abandonment wound in the most ruthless way: polyamory. The path of multiple lovers. Her defenses knew exactly where to twist the knife. She began talking about her desire to bring other people into the relationship—not as lasting connections, but as “adventurous explorations.”
“I think it would be good for us to open up our relationship to other people,” she suggested. “How do you feel about polyamory, baby?”
I didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit.
“Great, at certain stages of relationship exploration, but not something that interests me with you.”
“It doesn’t have to be men. I would be okay with a woman in our bed.”
“I’m fully satisfied as things are. Why do you need this?” I inquired. She continued to instigate, “Because I love you. I want to share you with others.”
“As if! You’re just afraid. You’re looking for another escape hatch.”
She came right back, “Not afraid at all. I just want to live.”
“Oh, we’re living.”
She added fuel to her argument by dressing it in reason: we would still remain “primary partners” but share ourselves with peripheral connections. On a rational level, I didn’t believe she had any real interest in this, but who was rational at a time like this? With our hearts maximally opened and our fears ignited, reactivity was now running the show.
I had some experience with the poly path. There was a time when I hooked up with a small gaggle of poly tantricas in my explorative years. I became intimately involved with two of them, sometimes both in the bed at the same time. We jumped from one pleasure to another, bliss-tripping as far as it would take us. It didn’t take us very far. Before I knew it, we were caught in a web of jealousy and reactivity, one where the childhood trauma that fueled our non-attachment philosophy had come back to haunt us. Although joyous on the outside, we were actually bubbling cauldrons of unresolved feeling in the deep within. No fun at all.
One day I came home and Sarah was sitting with a young Spanish man in the living room. He was on the chair, she was relaxing on the couch. She had told me that she was going to try to make new friends in Toronto, so I didn’t suspect anything inappropriate. After simple introductions, I went upstairs to shower and change. When I came back downstairs, he was now sitting at the other end of the couch looking oddly smitten. After a few uncomfortable moments, he quickly hurried out of the house.
Then I lost it, just as her unconscious wanted me to lose it. Provoked by a week of jealousy triggers, I began to fight back. Although standing my ground restored my dignity, it made things worse between us. The more I fought back, the further she went in her efforts to trigger me. At one point, she picked up the phone to call an ex-boyfriend “just to see how he was doing.” After a few sleepless nights, her timing was impeccable. I picked up the phone and smashed it against the wall, giving her the excuse she needed to plan another trip back to her family home a few weeks later. Lost in the thickets of early transference, we needed a forest fire to clear the field.
The blame-athon had begun. We spent the next few weeks blaming each other for everything that triggered us. When she wasn’t blaming me for pushing her on baby-making, I was blaming her for deliberately igniting my jealousy triggers. Sarah walked softly, but carried a big shtick. And so did I. She became very judgmental and mean-spirited. And so did I. Having grown up in a shaming family, it wasn’t difficult for me to enter that consciousness. I knew how to defend, knew how to deflect, and knew how to attack.
War. Oh, no, not war again.
One night I lay alone on the couch, flashbacking to childhood. It had been a long time since I had felt this close to war, and the early memories were brewing. Waves of nausea overwhelmed me as I remembered some of the battles I had with my mother, particularly those from early childhood—the screaming, the hitting, the shaking, the hiding in her walk-in closet, where she would be least likely to look for me. So much hostility per square meter in that tiny house of hate. Although I consciously recognized I wasn’t there anymore, these grueling claustrophobic battles with Sarah were feeling eerily similar.
In one sense, our conflicts often seemed to emanate directly from our souls. Two warrior souls, longing for and resisting their merger in equal measure. At other times, it all felt entirely avoidant, like we were bypassing our vulnerability with war games. And at other times, I was sure the pain of the collective unconscious was rising up to obstruct us. We were like receptacles, choicelessly channeling the world’s trauma. We felt our connection to the universe in the ecstasy, so why not in the suffering, too? I had to wonder, again and again, can anyone hold this degree of love safe before the collective unconscious has itself healed? Although it seemed enmeshed in personal triggers, it also seemed to be linked to something much broader.
Yet, what was so fascinating about this dynamic was that nothing ever touched the love at the core. This wasn’t a question of moving in with someone, then finding out that you never really knew them. No matter what darkness emerged, it never diminished the love. It never hampered the longing. It never made her look any less beautiful to me. It was more a question of the love shining its light on everything not love, again and again…
And often the veil would lift all on its own, with the shadows seamlessly turning to light. One day, in the middle of the most intense arguing, I was overcome by a feeling of tremendous vastness. It was like the Divine had entered the room, instantly deepening the vibration. Sarah was lying naked on the couch and I just couldn’t stop loving her. Everything else fell away. That delicate corner where her upper and lower lips met, that one stray hair that always tickled her nose, the soft pubic mound that hinted at the temple below. My eyes teared up as I watched God’s chest rise and fall. How can the world hold such grace?
Before the battles could turn uglier, we decided she should follow through with her plans to go home for a visit. When I was driving her to the airport, she couldn’t stop crying. I asked her why she was sobbing so deeply. She wouldn’t answer. Her silence was deafening. When we arrived at the terminal, she gave me a peck on the cheek and quickly left the car.
I came back to an empty house, filled with grief. Before going to bed, I discovered her latest graffiti on the shower wall:
Stay true to us.
What choice did I have?
10
Hol(e)y Ship
I lay down to nap, but I was too rattled. It confused me to no end how this depth of love could arise with so much hostility in its wake. It didn’t take a genius to make the connection between my triggers and my early life experiences, but sometimes the pain felt so foreign to me, like we had walked right into someone else’s nightmare. Had we? Where exactly is the line between one love story and another?
Despite the challenges, I had gone too far from shore to turn back now. My love for her filled the spinnaker of my heart, carrying me from placid sea to raging torrent, then back again. Even if I wanted to turn back, where would I go? She was
both my ocean and the ship I traveled on. I had to stay the course.
We spoke on the phone, but there was a tension that just wouldn’t dissipate. I did everything I could to wrestle it to the ground, but it just hung there, like an ominous cloud that won’t move until it rains. If ever we needed the support of someone who had walked this love-path before, it was now.
On the way back from work one day, I saw Dude sitting at an outdoor café, sipping a tall dark one. He motioned me to come over. “Sit down, man. How you dudin’? You need to take a load off your mind.”
“Got that right,” I replied, sitting myself down across from him.
“Why so sullen? Lover got your tongue?”
“Kind of. She left for another break. Too many fights.”
“Got to clear the runway or the plane can’t land. You guys want to take off or land?”
I ordered a beer from the waiter and sat quietly for a few minutes pondering his strange question. “We both asked for this love,” I said at last. “The universe delivered. I just don’t understand why it has to be so painful.”
Dude didn’t waste any time replying. “The ladder to heaven is made from broken rungs. You got that? Let me spell it out for you. T-H-E-L-A-D-D...”
I cut him off, “I can spell!”
“The universe delivers what people need to grow, man. It don’t care what you ask for. Maybe it brought you together to teach you something. Maybe you already got the gift.”
“It’s not feeling like much of a gift.”
“Look! Love is lawless, unruly, chaotic, radical. It ain’t subtle and smooth. It can’t be tamed or controlled. Forget about it! It’s a cosmic tornado that sucks you up and drops you to the ground when it’s done with you. Nothing will ever be the same. N-O-T-H-I-n-G. If you can’t handle heights, you won’t last a minute.”
Then he noisily slurped down his beer and continued, “Look kid, I’m gonna tell you again. The higher the mountain, the deeper the valley. How many metaphors do you need before you get it?”
He dug for his pocket watch, then quickly got up to go. “I forgot, I got to rock. I’m late for the three o’clock doughnut bake. I like my Powdered Cinnamon warm.”
Before he got to the other side of Baldwin Street, he turned my way to give me one more Dude-bit of sagely advice, “Keep the faith, and the faith will keep you.” Then he picked up his pace, and raced off in the direction of deep-fried wheat.
When he had faded from view, I noticed he had left his $15 bar bill behind. Seems a reasonable price to pay for such a cornycopia of wisdom.
I finished my beer and walked home with a sudden shot of optimism. Something about Dude’s presence always lightened my mood. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I imagined. Maybe Sarah and I were doing exactly what Providence intended—opening, retreating and consolidating growth, then expanding outward yet again... into defenses, below defenses, into defenses, below defenses. Each opening guided by grace, each closing prevented from permanence by Providence. Reminding us with the feel of our Persian cat against our ankle, or a feather falling from the sky at an opportune moment, that we were only to separate for a brief moment before returning to each other for another try.
Maybe.
The Colorado Monologues
Sleepless in Toronto, I flew down to see her in Colorado the next weekend. When I arrived at the baggage claim, Sarah raced across the floor and jumped into my arms, inadvertently knocking my carry-on and its contents to the ground. We both got down on our knees to gather everything up, entirely unaware of the world around us. When everything was put back in place, we remained on the ground and soul-gazed, again turning an airport into our own personal love nest.
As we vacated our separateness, up came the songs of prior unions, bridged to deeper callings and eternal rhythms. Crisp and clear, the music was unmistakable. Beyond our localized perceptions was something far vaster—a co-created symphony, rising to a crescendo on the wings of our love. The song of Us.
There really is no feeling like reconnecting with a soul you have known since time immemorial. Not only does it bridge you to one another, it grounds you deeper into your own karmic legacy. Suddenly the worries of the day aren’t quite as pointed, as the cozy blanket of shared lineage warms your heart, reminding you that you have both been here before and that you will surely be here again. In the eyes of the beloved is the evidence that life truly does go on. Soulmates both call us back in time and prepare the nest for the lives to come.
As we drove back to Sarah’s family home in the museum-mobile, we didn’t speak at all. Although silent, I could hear our souls dialoguing, speaking their truths in the deep within:
I’m afraid.
Me, too.
I don’t know how to keep us in the light.
Nor do I.
I’m still hopeful.
Pause.
Yes, me too.
Pause.
I’m afraid.
I am, too.
You are my everything.
That’s why this is so frightening.
It’s so much to hold.
Yes.
Will we get through this?
I don’t know.
We were shaking inside, we were.
Before going to the house, we went for a walk in the woods. The lively perfumed forest had lost its scent as winter crept in to steal the sweetness. It was the beginning of the dying, before the first snowfall. After a few minutes, we came to the edge of a powerful rushing river. Too cold to sit, we crouched down beside it and simultaneously began to cry. The river received our tears, as the residue from our conflicts emptied out and merged with nature. It was a beautiful release.
I couldn’t help but remember the first time we sat at a river’s edge together. It was only a few months ago in real time, but it felt like a century had passed between us. Time is an entirely different experience in the land of the beloved. A minute lasts a day, a day lasts a month, a month lasts an eternity. We had already scaled the heights of divinity and crash-landed on a bed of childhood memories. Where would we travel next?
We went back to the house in time for dinner. Jessie and norman were sitting in the living room waiting for us. It felt so comforting to see them—a couple that had been through the love wars and survived intact. After a solid man-hug from norman, we went into the dining room to eat. After weeks of tension, it felt wonderful to be with my beloved and her family. Such fullness of being, as her beautiful parents shared their own stories of connection and overcoming. Smoky and Bear kept playing with my feet like no time had passed, and the buttermilk pie!—there really is nothing like buttermilk pie to soothe the savage beast. All the while, Sarah and I shared seductive glimpses across the table. We were hungry for each other, too.
After dinner, we went into her bedroom to have a dialogue. The room was in a chaotic state, with plates of old food and unwashed clothes laying all over the floor and armoire. So different from the pristine Amish room I had seen on my first visit. Even the vertical blinds were topsy-turvy, with one side higher than the other. It looked like a cyclone had hit it. Or, a challenging relationship.
I sat down on the old rocker at the bottom of the bed, while Sarah plunked herself down at the head of the bed. Open on the bed were two well-worn photo albums. Sarah picked one up and began to talk. At first tentative, she became more energized as she spoke, rapidly laying down her theories about what was blocking our path: the positioning of the planets, our Vedic chart misalignment, the problem of timing. She spoke straight through for almost an hour, before lying down on the bed and going quiet.
I couldn’t hear a word of it. It wasn’t that I didn’t care what she was feeling. I just couldn’t feel her. It all felt conceptual and avoidant, like she was deliberately bypassing her vulnerability. I knew it was in there somewhere, but I couldn’t feel it.
When she was done, she asked me if I understood. I lied, “It all makes perfect sense.” I didn’t want to make matters worse. Then she asked me to express m
y truth. So I did, with equally ungrounded banter, evading my vulnerability.
When I was done, I asked her if she had anything to say. She said, “No, it all makes perfect sense.” I knew she hadn’t heard a word.
Too confused or too afraid, we could neither speak nor hear our truths when our pain was active. It was as though we had left our bodies at the same moment, shadow-jumping away from the wound-body because it felt too large to confront. It’s astonishing how effective we humans are at ignoring the push to consciousness when it’s staring us straight in the inner eye.
After we were both done, I lay down on the bed beside her. We kissed tentatively with our eyes open. Then Sarah turned the other way, and I spooned her, nestling my face in her hair. Her smell began to intoxicate me, reminding me of the delights of her flesh. Oh, how I longed to make love with her again.
Perhaps the turning away helped her to feel safe, because now she spoke more clearly from her heart. “You’re just so controlling, Lowen. I feel suffocated.”
I replied softly, “How do I suffocate you? I feel like I give you all kinds of space.”
“I’m independent. I have to make my own choices, for myself. Pa always said that about me. You don’t understand where I come from. No one can choose my path.”
“But what do I try to control?”
“I’m wild, Ogdo—wild as the wind. I always will be.”
As if to emphasize her words, the wind banged the blinds against the bedpost. The natural world clearly agreed with her. Point taken.
After a long pause, she spoke again. “Our love forces me to belong to something, but I don’t belong to anything, only nature. And nature is wild. It can’t be tamed. You can’t tame us.”
Us? Did she get engaged to the trees? Talk about playing it safe. Marry the forest, and other than the occasional thunderstorm you won’t get upset. For a moment, I felt tempted to psychoanalyze her fear of belonging, but I caught myself. It would only create more friction and, truth be told, who even knows where these patterns come from? Maybe it’s not a play-it-safe pattern sourced in childhood trauma. Maybe it’s a soul path? Maybe it’s not a willful child clinging to her independence. Maybe her path really was that of the wild and free. I had learned from my own life that what is neurotic through one lens is expansive through another. And what is one person’s relationship prison is another person’s liberation from loneliness. Maybe she was right—I was trying to hold a bird in my hand.