An Uncommon Bond

by jeff brown

  “It’s time, Junior. How long’s it been since you had a girl? Like five years, right?”

  I nodded my head yes.

  “There are many forms of love. Try on another for size,” he said, getting up to leave. “That was free of charge. Now get prowling.”

  Halfway across the street, he turned back and called out, “Don’t end up like me, Lowen, alone with a pushcart as your companion.”

  Ugh. Maybe Dude was right.

  It had actually been more than six years since Sarah, and three years since my last attempt at intimacy. Which wasn’t real intimacy at all—only a half-cocked attempt. I didn’t want to make the mistake of giving up on love altogether.

  After seeing Dude, I went for lunch with my Bubbi—my feisty 84-year-old Jewish grandmother. She rolled my coins for me, a job she relished. When they were all rolled up, we would spend the money on lunch. She loved doing it so much that I secretly bought rolled change at the bank, unwrapped it, and threw it in the bottle so she would have a full load to work with.

  Once she got rolling, she wouldn’t stop until it was all done. She was ninety pounds of coin-rolling might. She would call me throughout the rolling process, often filling my answering machine with the ongoing totals: “Lowen, we’re up to five bucks. Will call back soon.” “Honey, I hit the jackpot—we’re at twenty bucks and still climbing.” “Lo Lo! I just hit a C-note!” It was the most annoyingly cute thing ever.

  On this glorious autumn afternoon, I was instructed to pick her up at her apartment so we could go to the bank to convert the rolls into bills. She didn’t like leaving them in her apartment, certain that the great robber in the sky knew she had thirty bucks in nickels in her cedar chest. After the bank, we drove to our favorite Jewish Deli. It was one of my favorite rituals—baked whitefish and bagels with Bubbi.

  Her and my long-deceased grandfather had loved one another since the first moment they saw each other, walking up Bathurst Street in Toronto on the way to synagogue. They were married for 56 years and had never stopped loving each other through wars, poverty and disease.

  They had also never stopped loving me. They were the ones to shower me with the unconditional love I had never found anywhere else. Throughout my life, they had lavished me with praise and encouragement, serving as a perpetual refuge from my parental battleground. Shelter was there whenever I needed it, and it came with back tickles, warm food and unwavering acceptance. Oh, and five bucks every now and then from Zeyda, my grandfather. “Every kid needs a fin in his pocket. No kid should walk around penniless.” They were a blessing.

  On this day, Bubbi was on a mission, even before the whitefish got to the table.

  “I’m worried about you, Lo Lo.”

  “Why, Bubbi? All is well.”

  “You’ve been alone too long. It’s not natural.”

  What, were her and Dude on the same cosmic tag team?

  “I know, but it’s not that simple. I can’t go back to regular love.”

  How do you explain an uncommon bond to your Jewish grandmother? Through her practical eyes, if a couple didn’t stay together through thick and thin, there was never a bond at all.

  “Who said anything about regular love? How about a wonderful love, with great-grandchildren even,” she said with a little smile.

  “I feel at peace on my own, Bubbi.”

  “I am happy to hear that—Zeyda would be pleased—but I don’t see why you can’t go to some dances, and see if something good comes your way.”

  “Dances? no one goes to dances at the Jewish Y anymore, Bubbi.”

  “Doesn’t matter where, go find her on that computer phone if you want. Tilly’s daughter met her husband on a computer. You know what the Rabbi always says...”

  “No Bubbi, I don’t go to synagogue—what does he say?”

  “It’s a woman Rabbi, but that’s not the point, Lo Lo. She says ‘The sun shines on those who keep the faith.’”

  “That’s pure schmaltz. And I have faith, I just don’t want to settle for less.”

  “Who’s talking about settling? not trying to meet someone, that’s settling, sweetheart. You need someone to take care of you. You want to be all alone when you’re old?”

  Oy gevalt! Old style scare tactics.

  The Bubbi wanted more than lunch today. She wanted great-grandkids and my happiness, and she was willing to use any technique she could find. Even old style scare tactics!

  They worked.

  Back on the Love Train

  And so, I began to date. And date. I went at it hard, with mixed results. I dated one woman who was super solid. But she had no emotional fluidity. Then I had two dates with the opposite—a woman who was open but lacking in boundaries. Next I spent a weekend with a nurturer—she gave and gave and never talked about herself. And then a youthful, beautifully bodied yoga teacher, who lacked the richness of character that comes with age. One way or the other, I didn’t find what I was looking for. Oh by the way, what was I looking for?

  All the while, reminders of my former beloved were back on the radar screen, after a long dry spell: Colorado license plates, cardinals and hawks, a man running down my street yelling for his daughter Sarah, and her graffiti scrawl When two hearts beat in the same direction coming through the sunroom wall, no matter how many times I repainted it.

  Dear Universe, isn’t it time for another channel?

  And then I met someone. At a library cafeteria, no less. And her name was Miriam, just like the crone at Rockwood. I liked that.

  I met her over lunch. She was sitting across from me at a large communal table and I felt an immediate resonance. I shared my orange jello with her. She shared her cherry. And we talked until the cafeteria emptied.

  She had soft, chin length dark hair, deep brown eyes, and particularly pink cheeks—a round face full of kindness.

  We quickly formed a lovely relationship. A single mother and busy medical doctor, Miriam’s mature nature spoke to me. Before the birth of her daughter, she had devoted herself to philanthropic work—serving as a doctor in war-torn and third world countries—and it had taken her beyond the realm of petty self-involvement. There were no games, no mixed messages, no manipulations. She was deeply present during our time together. A devout student of conscious relationship, she was earnest in her efforts to process the few issues that came up in the connection. And she loved to laugh, dance and make love.

  The timing was perfect. If she had come any earlier, I wouldn’t have even noticed her. I needed the time that I took to heal. After all, love needs an entry point. If our emotional body is all blocked up with unresolved issues, there’s no way in. The more we empty the vessel before it comes, the more space love has to flourish. Healing our hearts gives love a place to land.

  When we were together, I felt satisfied and nourished, like I had just eaten my favorite home-cooked meal. I loved being part of her family—her daughter, Chloe, was 9 years old and a spunky firecracker of delight—and I loved making her part of mine. There was nothing to fear, nothing to flee, and no need to distract. The memory of my shaky union with Sarah faded as I finally stood on solid relational ground.

  Miriam was 52 when we met, older than me by nearly nine years. Where before I had never imagined myself with an older woman, it now deeply filled me. I had grown tired of perfect younger bodies. They had no story to tell. And I had grown tired of being alone when in company. My story wanted to be met by another story. Miriam and I had a storybook beginning. Not a fairy tale, but a true-to-life story—raw and real, in all its beautiful imperfections.

  In the heart of this solidity, my rapid-fire way of being slowed down even more. I began to appreciate the subtleties of daily life: the way the light changed as the day passed, the way it feels to actually taste your food, the poignancy that lives at the heart of stillness, the healing capacity of a simple touch. Miriam was teaching me that it can be truly safe to be vulnerable in connection. And that it was possible to be deeply connected and still have identi
fiable boundaries, rather than being completely and inextricably subsumed by the flames of love.

  Perhaps most importantly, she taught me it was possible to heal our wounds in a relationship, not by using conflict and intensity as the excavator of the wounds, but by being with someone whose kindness gently invites the wounds to the surface to be healed. Miriam’s unconditionally loving nature was the perfect healing balm for the wild man that still lived somewhere inside me.

  This was so radically different from the fiery intensity I had known with Sarah, the heated word wars and the ruthless attacks, going hand-in-hand with the leaps into God-consciousness. I had also witnessed other couples too, who thrived off intentionally triggering each other under the guise of spiritual development—trying to heal the fire by recreating the fire, as many trauma survivors do. They believed that they need the triggers in order to bring their unresolved wounds and patterns to the surface. For them, their tumultuous connection is the primary way they become conscious of their issues. This is one kind of conscious relationship.

  Because of Miriam, I came to prefer another kind of relationship: one where the connection is so stable and loving that your armor melts into sweetness. In the heart of that opening, your wounds and issues feel safe to reveal themselves. Not perpetually triggered by your partner, not re-traumatized by the connection, not lost on that slippery slope between forward moving trigger-fests and co-dependent woundmating—but invited into healing by their loving presence.

  For now, this was my kind of conscious relationship.

  The Call of the Be-loved

  Then, something shifted.

  After four wonderful years together, my heart began to feel called away. At first the message was difficult to decipher—a subtle form with no discernible texture, an inexplicable loss of attunement, a microscopic agitation, a little voice speaking in tongues. Then it became clear. What began as an amorphous ‘truth-ache’ became impossible to ignore—the call of the beloved, yet again. I felt it in my yearning hands, as they longed to touch another as I had touched Sarah. I felt it in my searching eyes, as they scanned for the beloved in the trees, in the sky, in the market. And I most strongly felt it in the night, when the unseen world peeked through with intimate dreams of Sarah, waking me up beside Miriam—aroused and confused. Was I smitten with a ghost?

  I tried to resist, but I yearned for the experience of unity I had tasted with Sarah. It was everything any traditional therapist would have warned against—the illusion of wholeness with another, the addiction to ecstasy—but the longing took root, haunting me without remorse, refusing to budge. Had I buried this longing all this time, or was Miriam another step of preparation, readying me for the next beloved?

  Whatever it was, I wanted it back. I wanted it in my arms. I wanted it in my bed. I longed to be catapulted to higher consciousness in the presence of a beloved. For some time, I tried to create it in my relationship with Miriam, but that wasn’t our way. We got along beautifully, but we just didn’t have that kind of soul-synergy together. She was chicken soup for the soul—grounding and nourishing on many levels—but she wasn’t my soulmate. We had chemistry, but we didn’t have karmastry. I wanted both.

  And then my confusion became a full-fledged existential crisis. Those deeply rooted questions again rose to the surface, questions I thought I had long resolved. What path am I here to walk? What kind of love relationship reflects my destiny? Who am I, really? Who is this man, now?

  It is an odd thing to be so loved by someone sitting right in front of you, while your heart is with a ghost. Even stranger, to know that the ghost is never coming back, but that her essence lives on, enlivening your spirit, reminding you from your tomb of shared memories that there is more to love than what you have settled for.

  In truth, I adored Miriam. It wasn’t just a practical thing, a security thing, a healing thing. It was a love relationship, one with tremendous care, warmth and affection. I was woven into her life, she was woven into mine, and Chloe and I had grown very close. Very few individuals would have walked away from this nourishing relationship, but very few had experienced an uncommon bond. Very few had gone straight to the heart of God with a simple glance. A whole different playing field.

  I soon lived a tormented life, weighing the paths like a butcher weighs chickens. Which path has more meat on it? Which path will leave me hungry? I was now 47 years old—wasn’t I too old to start over again? And for what? The remote possibility that another great love would come my way? Or, the promise of a lifetime spent miserably alone? Truth-aches tossed and turned me, refusing to let me suppress the yearning, demanding that I end the relationship. What kind of fool walks away from the healthiest relationship he has ever had?

  This one.

  In With the True

  One day, I had gone as far down the torment path as I could bear. I had tried to put the beloved away, but you can’t tuck the divine away. Once you see that startling glimpse of God in human form, it can never be forgotten. I loved Miriam so, but the connection didn’t bring me home. It was like we both loved God, but they were two different versions. Remaining together was not the highest for both of us. She deserved a man who was completely satisfied with her. I deserved a life that reflected my deepest yearning. Every person has the one thing they cannot live without if they are to feel complete. The beloved was my wholly grail, my yoniverse of meaning. It didn’t mean that I would find my ultimate love in this lifetime, but it did mean that I would rather die looking than resign myself to a half path. Better to have yearned and lost than to have stopped yearning altogether. Better to live alone and die true to path.

  Many of us know the moment when a love connection is over, but few of us stop then. I’m not talking about reactive endings. I am talking about the deep intuitive knowing that it’s time to move on. Yet we are either too afraid, or too stubborn, or too concerned about the other’s feelings to make our move. But it’s perilous to delay, both because we suffer in the wrong connection and because we hold two souls back from finding the next step on their individual paths. Whether there’s another love waiting around the next corner, or whether it’s simply time to be alone, no one benefits by staying in an outgrown union. We have to notice the moment of ending and take it to heart. Everyone’s expansion depends on it.

  I called Miriam and asked her to meet me for lunch. She was excited, as I hadn’t taken her out in months. I met her at the hospital and we drove to our favorite restaurant.

  Somewhere between the appetizer and the entree, I told her the truth.

  I saw her lower lip quiver. She looked down. Then she looked up at me, eyes glistening with tears. “I was expecting this,” she said in a whisper.

  “You were?” This surprised me.

  She nodded. “I knew I wasn’t your final destination. I was a stepping stone along the way. I have just loved being with you. Every moment.”

  “And I have loved being with you,” I said tenderly.

  Struck by a wave of emotion, she said, “Are you sure? Is there any way we could work on it?”

  I knew in my heart that the decision had been made. My hunger for expansion took precedence over my hunger for security. With a tear falling down my face, I shook my head.

  She nodded in acceptance.

  As we drove back to the hospital, waves of emotion shook through both of us. It was not easy to leave a relationship, especially one that had served as such a nest. “Come here...” I said. I held her in my arms, stroking her hair, feeling both of our chests rise and fall in quiet sobs.

  After a long moment of holding each other, she looked at me, eyes filled with tears and pure sincerity, and said, “I honor your courage. Please find what you are seeking.”

  “Thank you for the many gifts you have given me, darling,” I replied. “You were truly a blessing in my life.”

  And she was. What a beautiful, selfless woman. I had been transformed by her presence. She had taught me that love could be immeasurably kind, without a hint of
war, anywhere.

  I drove back toward home, heart aching with sadness. Suddenly the reality hit me. I was alone again. A lone wolf warrior. Voices of uncertainty rose to taunt me: How could you leave her, schmuck? Now what? Living your life and growing old—all alone? When you have such a solid love in your life? Run back to her! You can still catch her—don’t let another one go!

  I pulled over to the side of the road. I could still turn around and go back to her. I did love her.

  Shakily, I drove forward. Past the voices of doubt and remorse. Past the aching heart. Past the fear of aloneness, again.

  Shakily, but steadily, I walked... into what... I did not know.

  Out with the old, in with the true.

  20

  Love It Forward

  I spent a few months quietly grieving and processing the end of my relationship with Miriam. Reflecting on the blessings, ready-making for whatever would come my way next. And then I began to date. Again. Lots of lovely souls, but no beloved.

  Then, one stormy night, the winds of change struck. I had a profoundly vivid dream. It was more of a life-changing event, manifest in dream form. The kind of dream you can’t possibly ignore except at your own peril.

  In the dream, I was sitting in the sunroom of my apartment writing. The room had become a wild creative space. There were love words and phrases written all over the walls. The branches from Sarah’s favorite tree had broken through the window and were stretched out all over the ceiling. The squirrels were inside the room, running to and fro. I was naked and tearful and happy as a lark. It was a kind of chaotic magnificence.

  Suddenly I spotted Sarah’s familiar hand-writing. In big red letters across the side wall was a phrase that I had never heard before: LOVE IT FORWARD. The words reminded me of the words the crone had spoken to me, when she had told me to become the gift and bring it to the world.

  I woke up the next morning completely clarified about the next step of my journey. I was going to write a love story about Sarah and I. All that love needed some place to go. This was the way I was going to gift back to the universe for blessing me with a taste of ecstasy. This was the way I would convert our suffering into gold. This was my offering to the beloved. Perhaps we couldn’t make it all the way through the passage, but we could surely help others to walk a little further together.