An Uncommon Bond

by jeff brown

  Our connection is much like a never-ending mine. Although we feel so complete together, there is always the sense we’ve only scratched the surface of divine possibilities between our souls. Once we fully extricate the gems from one level of the mine, more are waiting at a deeper level. The deeper we go, the more brilliant the treasures we find. And the treasures aren’t static, but dynamic and flowing, actively informing the next stage of our mutual expansion. Alone on my meditation cushion, the treasures had been so limited, but with my beloved by my side, an unlimited karmacopia of delight has revealed itself. Such magic.

  On an individual level, I now know true peace. I see how no time was lost or wasted. Everything that came before—my early life challenges, my unresolved issues, Sarah’s departure—makes perfect sense in the context of my own soul’s journey. I came into this life with an armored consciousness and I needed exactly what I received in order to open it. I needed the harsh upbringing. I needed the great love. And I needed Sarah to leave so I could learn how to open my heart without being dependent on another. I am now at the point of every return.

  Although I’m individually broadened and transformed, I recognize that it is fundamentally intertwined with my love-relationship. Two trees side by side, separate but connected at the roots, always connected at the roots. Two human beings sitting side by side, hearing the raindrops beating on the temple roof, feeling the presence of the other everywhere. Grateful and gracious, jointly whispering IU.

  There is a path at the heart of each love connection. Each has its own karmic blueprint. It is seldom what we imagine. You just have to find the path and follow it wherever it leads you. Some connections are meant to last a lifetime, and many aren’t. Expectations are like quicksand. They keep us from arriving at our true destination. Wherever we land, may we arrive with our hearts wide open.

  Birthdays

  Two years after she returned, Sarah asked to go to the cave. We hadn’t been there, together, for more than 16 years. It was time.

  “Let’s write together there, Ogdo. On the cave wall.”

  “Yes, let’s, sweetheart. Let’s.”

  The cave of remembered dreams, with my beloved in the flesh. What could be better?

  We set out early in the morning. Spring was just beginning to peek through winter’s deep slumber. There was a certain fragrance in the air, a hint of rebirth and renewal. When we arrived at Goshen, we found the park open but no one there. It was all ours. There was still crunchy snow on the ground and the air was chilly. Sarah grabbed her knapsack from the car and we began our trudge through the snow. Halfway to the cave, a large heron flew over our heads, its left leg hanging so low that it almost brushed Sarah’s head. A welcoming party?

  When we arrived at the cave, we stood in silence for a moment, paying homage to the memories. Some of them were still there, written on the wall. Time had protected them.

  Sarah asked me to sit down against the wall. After a few moments, she came over and blindfolded me. “Just trust me, Lowen. This is not a sex thing. Too cold for that this morning. But I do have a sweet surprise for you.”

  While blindfolded, I heard her rustling through her bag. And then I heard the ever-so-familiar scratch of her writing on the cave wall.

  “I thought we were supposed to do that together, baby.”

  “We will sweets, just give me a few more minutes.”

  When she was done, she kissed me and removed the blindfold. I looked at the cave wall directly opposite me. In green florescent chalk, she had written:

  I want to be inside your footsteps and walk with you each day.

  I want to rest within your quiet breaths at night.

  I want to whisper in your teardrops and live within your laughter.

  My eyes teared up, as suddenly the contrast between her physical presence, and my memories of isolation in the cave overwhelmed me. I stood up to hug her, but she motioned me to remain seated.

  “I’m not done, my love,” she said with those smiling eyes of hers in full bloom.

  I sat back down, as she got down on her knees in front of me. Reaching into her knapsack, she pulled out a small marble box. It looked like a family heirloom, elegant and timeless, with stories of its own. She placed it down in front of me. I reached for it and opened it to the most beautiful, simple ring of white gold.

  “What’s this for, Sarah?”

  “It’s my way of saying sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For all those birthdays I missed.”

  Now I remembered—she was reciting my original marriage proposal.

  “And it’s also my way of saying that I want to be there for all the rest of them... for all your birthdays to come.”

  Before I could respond, she looked into my eyes and said, “I love you as God loves. With nature as my chapel, and the divine as my witness, I ask you—will you marry me, Lowen Cooper?”

  A surge of radiant elation filled my heart. I felt ecstatic that she asked me, too. How very beautiful—a woman asking a man. Why not—what is tradition in the face of love itself. I smiled and slid the ring onto my finger gleefully.

  Then she reached back into her bag and pulled out the ring I had given her many years ago. I hadn’t seen it since our reunion and hadn’t asked about it. I always assumed it got lost somewhere amid our years of separation. Clearly it hadn’t—she had kept it safe.

  I took the ring from her hand. Two perfect hearts intertwined, forever fused. I slid it back on her finger. Still a perfect fit. And then she smiled and said, “I do.” I kissed her lips softly.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon writing on the cave’s walls. And, when the afternoon sun warmed the day, I took out my pen-is and wrote my love inside her. What would a visit to the cave be without a little lovin’?

  Coach House

  The next winter, we went looking for Dude. Our spring wedding was imminent, and we wanted him there. We checked out all the places he would frequent when the weather got bitter. No dice—we couldn’t find him anywhere.

  We finally found a social worker who knew him from one of the neighborhood shelters. It turned out that Dude would drop in to give pep talks to the homeless, but never actually slept at the shelters. He had a makeshift house of his own in one of the Kensington Market back alleys. She didn’t know where, but there were only so many streets to choose from.

  On a particularly icy day, we began the alley search. Checking behind the residential homes first, we found nothing. Then we searched the alleys behind the retail stores. Just before giving up, I spotted what appeared to be Dude’s weathered Rumi book lying in the snow. We worked our way toward it and stopped dead in our tracks. There, pushed up against a fence between two fruit stores, was what appeared to be a yellow pagoda. It was made from pieces of old wood and covered, for the most part, in flattened coffee cups glued to the entire structure as a kind of protection. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of cups. Quite a sight.

  Outside the door was Dude’s dilapidated street sign, half buried in snow: $5 Dollars per Dudism. No deferral plan. Pay or adios. Something was askew.

  We knocked on the coffee cup door. No answer. I pressed it open, but there appeared to be an interior latch. I pushed harder, until the latch gave way. Inside, I found Dude lying on the cold hard ground, apparently unconscious. His face was red and splotchy, his whiskers icicles, his breath shallow. I called to Sarah to go get help. While she was gone, I covered him in my winter coat and rubbed his back. He didn’t budge at all. My pushcart guru was near dead.

  I looked around his place. There was little to see: a small messy cot, a toboggan with two blazers hanging off it, a giant bottle filled with untold amounts of cash. And a drawing of a young him with a long beard, and a woman donned in a bonnet. On it, were the words “Micah and Elizabeth Rasmussen’s wedding.” It appeared my push-cart guru was Amish. Wonders never cease. No wonder he lived such a natural life and had so little draw to civilization.

  The ambulance pulled up, and we
rushed Dude to hospital, in the nick of time. Just as he had always appeared when I most needed him, I had arrived to return the favor. Clearly we were part of the same soulpod, inextricably linked.

  After he recovered, he finally told us a little of his story. He and his beloved Elizabeth were together for seven years, living and running a feed shop in northern Pennsylvania. Tragically, their first child died during childbirth. A little girl they had named Robin. His wife Elizabeth never recovered from her grief. After falling into a dark depression for several years, she finally fled Micah and the community to live with a man she had met during Rumspringa, the period when Amish adolescents get to explore the world. It was her way of running away from her pain. Dude was so heartbroken that he fled the US and landed in Toronto. He had been living on the streets here for over 20 years.

  We invited him to live in the couch house on my property, rent-free. He had several health conditions, ranging from type 2 diabetes to arthritis to gout—he simply couldn’t continue to live outdoors. He protested mightily—“I want to earn my way”—until we agreed to accept payment in the form of snow shoveling and property maintenance.

  He has been living with us for some time, tending to our small property with great pride. Now and then, when the wisdom business is booming, he leaves some cash in a rusty old can at the front door. We don’t tell him, but we go right out into the world with it, loving it forward to other houseless people.

  In every great love dance, there is a whole soulpod of contributing influences. It begins with the family of origin and ripples outward from there, into a whole tapestry of meaningful faces, each of them playing a necessary role. They call to us, we call to them, and our angels broker the deal. Some will be remembered as supporters, some as lite-dimmers who impede, but all are essential to the lovers’ ultimate dance.

  In the sunroom of our home, we created an altar that honors our love. On it are a colorful array of symbols of our connection: cardinal feathers, a birds’ nest, green chalk, stones, cards. There’s also a special section of pictures of everyone, alive and dead, who somehow contributed to our journey home. Every now and then we hold an early morning prayer ceremony to express our gratitude to them. Seldom are we alone. Our new squirrel friends usually appear in the window, perhaps drawn by the candle, or perhaps because they are determined to be included in our circle of love. There was a time in my life when I would never have included bushy rodents in my family—but it all makes perfect sense now. When you find a love like this, you are swimming in magic. Nothing is excluded. And, nothing surprises you anymore. Everything serves the Beloved in its own sweet way.

  Today

  I wasn’t quite sure where to end An Uncommon Bond, the story of mine and Sarah’s journey. The story of love lost, yet never lost. The story of the journey from soulmates to solemates, from woundmates to whole-mates. The story of a love so true that it birthed a universe of eternal enchantment.

  How do I end that which will never end?

  I will end it with today.

  Today, just as I was about to finish this last chapter, we decided to go for a bike ride on Toronto Island. It was a beautiful spring day, with a soft and fragrant breeze. On the way back, we stopped to pick up some groceries at the St. Lawrence Market. There were too many bags to ride with, so we decided to walk the bikes all the way home. Instead of taking the main streets, we went down quieter back alleys as graffitists often do, looking for a good wall or two to ruin. When we took the last turn, we came across a young couple heatedly arguing about their relationship. They were clearly, dearly, sparklingly in love, and yet completely submerged in a trigger-fest of great intensity.

  Sarah looked at me, “Oh Lord, those triggers. God protect them.”

  “Should we warn them, honey?”

  “No. Life will take care of that,” she replied knowingly.

  “Think they’ll make it?”

  “So few do,” she replied. And then her eyes lit up. “But, yes... maybe. They do have a lot of fire. That can be useful.”

  We stood and furtively watched them for a while. They would never have known that we were sending prayers their way.

  So few couples make it at this individualistic stage of human development. I mean really make it, in the deepest and truest sense. But many more will as we continue to evolve beyond our perceived separateness and embrace relationship as a path to wholeness. It’s not an easy path, and it’s not the path for everyone on their soul’s journey—but it is a gateway to wonder for those who are both destined and willing to brave the journey.

  At this moment we are sitting on the couch. As I write these last words, Sarah is eating a bowl of her favorite coconut ice cream. We just finished a large dinner and both of us are feeling sleepy. And how fucking perfect it is. Because she is sitting beside me. Because her feet are touching mine. Because my heart has found its home.

  I am right where I belong.

  Return to Sender...

  Address now known.

  Our temple of mutual delight.

  Here we shall pray forever.

  THE END

  Words from the Author

  Throughout this lifetime, I’ve had many glimpses of great love coming my way. I didn’t see a face, or hear a voice, but I felt it there, tugging at me, waiting ahead or behind me on the path, a karmic bonfire with my name on it. Somehow I knew I had to wait for this love above all else—to polish me, to cleanse me, to stretch me so wide open that I could not help but transform. And so it did.

  Before my first great love arrived, I had spent many years on the lone wolf male warrior spiritual path. Unity consciousness was primarily an isolationist endeavor. If I was going to touch God, it was going to be with my mind, or in the heart of a solo meditation journey, or at the tail end of an emotional healing process. It wasn’t going to be in the presence of a woman. It wasn’t going to be while having intercourse with my beloved. It wasn’t going to be in the heart of vulnerability. It wasn’t going to be on the wings of a love.

  I met her magnificence when I was 36 years old. After twelve years of personal healing work, I was just ready to receive love’s blessings. Not comfortably, not peacefully, but with a genuine hunger for the expansion at its heart. If I had consciously known what would be required of me, I would surely have declined. Great love is tricky like that. It shows you why it came long after you are so deep in the adventure that you can’t turn back. At the least, I would have packed the ghost of Rumi in my travel bag, just to keep me hopeful on those deep dark dives into the mystery. There were so many of those.

  It wasn’t the first time I had loved, but it was the first time I had explored the universe through the portal of connection. It was the first time I had melted into longing in love’s cosmic kiln. It was the first time I had touched divinity in the heart of intimacy. It was the first time I had loved as God loves. I will never be the same. The call of the beloved always comes with the promise of expansion, and seldom in ways we plan or imagine. If you want to know what’s coming, choose a more practical love. But if you want to grow toward God, let your soul do the picking.

  With her—and this was even true in the suffering—I touched a magical universe, one I didn’t know existed. It was like our love was a portal to another dimension altogether, a magic carpet ride of trans-ordinary delight. There is the head-centered non-duality and there is the heart-nest of wholeness. And they are simply not the same worlds. How to hearticulate the splendor?

  Although the love between us ran ocean-deep, the intensity of our connection—mixed with our present levels of spiritual and emotional maturity—made the relationship unsustainable. By the time all was said and done, our relationship was in ruins, and I lay crumpled on the ground like a kite struck down by lightning. If shattered was what I needed to grow in karmic stature, then I got just what the soul doctor ordered. If ever there was a time I wanted to go back to a head-tripping path, it was then. But it was too late for dissociation. With my emotional armor long gone, I had
no choice but to get inside of my heart and weave it back together with whatever thread of hope I could find. It was no easy feat.

  In the heart of that process, I stumbled upon the work of Jeanne Achterberg, a mind-body healing pioneer and brilliant academic. I was a Masters of Psychology student at Saybrook Graduate School in San Francisco, when I noticed that she was teaching a seminar on ‘Uncommon Bonds’ at the next conference. Divine timing. Building upon cultural anthropologist Virginia Hine’s work with ‘bonded couples’—a particular kind of spiritual love relationship—Jeanne later coined the term “Uncommon Bonds” (see page 274 of this book) to describe such couples. When I heard her describe them at the conference, a light went on in my consciousness, suddenly illuminating a journey that was far beyond my understanding. Finally some clarity as to what I had experienced. Finally.

  Soon thereafter, with Jeanne as my chair, I wrote my Master’s thesis on my uncommon bond experience. I was so delighted to have a framework of understanding that it poured from me seamlessly: over a hundred pages in 31 hours. After it was approved, Jeanne offered to chair my PhD dissertation on the same topic. I was tempted, since crafting a map of relational consciousness felt deeply valuable, and, I suspected, part of my life-calling. But something else called me first. I wanted to write for the world, but I needed to write my autobiography first—Soulshaping: A Journey of Self-Creation. Love and relationship writing would have to wait.