by Jane Weiss
I thought I was coping with his pain and anger and my fears, but as I began meditating the next morning, the tears started immediately. I missed Bonnie already, and sensed the week would be full of emotions I’d have to deal with myself—without her comfort, reassurance, insight, or grounding.
My resolve to leave Charles continued to grow, even through the most difficult periods of preparing for the transition I was about to make. My next challenge was dealing with Michael and Lynn openly and at length, trying to reach any possible level of comfort for all of us.
I tried to explain why I needed to leave their father, that it was not their fault that we couldn’t make amends, and that through all this change my love for them was not diminished. I didn’t tell them that their father might not allow them to live with me. I couldn’t talk about Bonnie’s and my relationship with them, of course, even though Michael, and possibly Lynn and Andrew, already knew. That was another whole layer of confusion I wasn’t ready to deal with yet.
Andrew came home late that evening. Rather than join us, he sat on the floor in the dark hallway outside my bedroom door, waiting his turn to talk with me alone. He showed little emotion as I explained to him that his dad and I were separating and, because Charles wanted to stay in the house, I would be the one moving. My hope was that we would all be together soon.
I always believed that Andrew’s level of sensitivity was so high, that he needed to allow in difficult things slowly. The guides had corroborated this. I knew we would need to talk again.
Marie was already in bed, so I waited until the next day. As I began to tell her that I needed to leave her dad and we would all be together as soon as possible, she sobbed, pushed me away, and ran out of her room. I found her in the living room curled up at one end of the sofa. “May I hold you?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Marie, this is so hard, and I need us to be so brave. What are you most afraid of?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
How could she make any sense out of this? I barely could.
“I want you to know that I love you, and that we’ll find a way to get through this and be together.” At that point, I started crying, too, and rocked her in my arms. There were so many unknowns. God protect her… . God forgive me.
That night, I wrote Bonnie a pocket message:
Bonnie my love, as we pass through the pain of this transition, our love will be even more refined and useful to others. I open myself to all these feelings—the fears about my children, my deep longing for you and to be with you, my self-doubts, the comfort of God’s love, my response to Charles’s and possibly the kids’ recriminations. I want to face and experience everything fully, so that I can move through these soul learnings with awareness.
How I love you, my chosen partner for this journey. Thank you for your enriching, sustaining love, and for the hope that it brings me—hope for change, for becoming more of what my soul needs me to be. I trust you to walk through this part of your search and emerge with His highest good apparent to you, to us. Whatever you choose—to stay with your family, or to enjoin me—I’ll understand. I’ll always love you. You asked me if our choice is worth what our families are going through. I don’t know, but I’m amazed at my steadiness, my vision for them, for me, for us. I have to trust that.
Part II - The Unforgiving Years (1982-85)
Chapter 7 - Together at What Cost?
With the landlord’s approval of our rental agreement and the expectation for March 1 occupancy at Lake Harriet Apartments, we had truly created a place for us to be. We were drawn to Lake Harriet, as it had not only been the cradle of our relationship, but had become a healing place for us over the past year and a half—a place where we jogged and walked together, talking over sensitive heart issues. The clear lake water seemed to know its purpose was to smooth emotions for clarity; and the circular, well-trodden path promised resolution and completion for life’s cycles.
Where we’d live evolved after careful consideration. From all verbal indications, Charles intended to keep the children away from me, under the pretense of protecting them from being tainted by Bonnie’s and my sinful relationship. It appeared he had counseled them that if they avoided me, my longing for them would drive me back home.
I had to face the fact that my hopes of living close enough to my children to have them drop in after school or for the weekend or even live with me half-time weren’t going to be realized, at least for now. Bonnie and Brian had already discussed sharing parenting responsibilities, so it made sense to locate close to her home in Southwest Minneapolis—the closer to Lake Harriet, the better.
The intrepid transition to our apartment was accomplished over a week’s time. Charles fulfilled his unexpected offer to help financially, giving me a thousand dollars and one of our cars. Perhaps he believed this was only a phase, and that I’d be back home in short order. Perhaps he was concerned about my well-being. Regardless, I appreciated his kindness.
I don’t recall where Charles or our children were when I loaded the Chevy Citation with only my clothes. Knowing I was deeply and irrevocably disrupting our family’s patterns, I determined that I would not remove any furnishings or obvious household items. Did I truly believe that if nothing were out of place, the family wouldn’t notice I was missing? I later longed to recall giving the children “good-byes,” hugs, and promises to call soon, but the trauma of leaving my children behind suppressed my memory, a protective pattern I learned as a child.
On a cold, clear Saturday morning in March, Bonnie’s son, David, and husband, Brian, helped her move their waterbed, bedroom chest, an old living room chair, her mother’s antique Jenny Lind daybed, a few kitchen wares, and Bonnie’s clothes the eight blocks from her family’s home to our apartment. I remember watching them stolidly unloading the station wagon contents and setting up the bed. It must have been difficult for Brian especially to consider that he may never again share that bed with Bonnie—that no matter what transpired, life from this event forward would never be the same. He was courteous to me, but avoided meeting my eyes as we passed each other carrying boxes into the apartment. From the onset of Bonnie’s and my relationship, Brian seemed resigned to its eventuality, even telling Bonnie at one point that it seemed fated.
After the last box was unloaded and carried into the apartment, and our door closed behind our helpers, Bonnie and I stood in the dimly lit hallway for a long time, holding each other tightly. “That was incredibly hard. But we’re here—we’ve come this far, anyway,” Bonnie murmured.
“And I’m so grateful to God that you’ve been willing to make this journey with me,” I responded, gently kissing her cheek and neck and leading her back to our bedroom, into our bed, in our own apartment.
The overwhelming feeling of release from our tense family homes to the solace of each other was profound. The sheer delight at seeing Bonnie every day and sleeping in her arms every night was indescribably whole-making. We felt and acted like the newlyweds we had read about in novels, but had never before experienced.
With a heightened sense of joy, we relished doing everything together, from unpacking, shopping, and deep cleaning, to laughing, chasing each other through the apartment, and listening to love songs way into the night. I marveled at how contemporary songs took on new meaning for me, and was thrilled when the radio disc jockeys played Kenny Rogers’s “Lady” or Joe Cocker’s “You Are So Beautiful to Me.” “Ebony and Ivory” was another favorite that mirrored our love, describing harmony and joy in diversity. And the soundtrack from Chariots of Fire, with its triumphant music, became a source of comfort and inspiration for both of us.
Our quiet Linden Hills neighborhood and its four-corner shopping area was a sweet place to create our own rituals for Saturday morning cinnamon roll breakfasts, occasional Friday night pizza suppers, and shopping the funky secondhand stores for clothing, household “stuff,” and even gifts—as we were long on love, but short on cash. Bonni
e’s paycheck had to cover half of all Brian’s and her shared credit card debt, mortgage, and utilities, and half of our rent, utilities, and groceries. My take-home salary, which was about half of Bonnie’s, had to pay for my portion of our rent and living expenses, and my car upkeep.
Our most favorite ritual, which we would continue for years, was going to the Black Forest Inn nearly every Wednesday night, where for only five dollars each, we good German-stock girls sat in “our booth,” engrossed in conversation for hours, sharing a half-carafe of wine and a bratwurst with sauerkraut plate. Then, high on each other, we’d race home to our apartment. Once inside our nest, we’d leave a trail of clothing from the entrance door to our room, tumble into bed, make love, and gratefully fall asleep in each other’s arms.
The things that attracted us to this first-floor apartment, besides the great location and $495 per month rent, were the wide expanse of windows across the living and dining rooms, newly painted off-white walls, and two bedrooms with two baths. Not as wonderful were the worn gold-colored carpet, the 1950’s version of salmon-colored tile bathroom, and the grease-laden Pullman-style kitchen.
We happily set about transforming our abode to reflect the beauty of our relationship, gathering used furniture and refinishing it, buying dark-green with yellow-flowered chintz drapery fabric, and sewing living and dining room tie-back ruffled curtains and a daybed cover with pillows.
Over the next few months, the apartment became a gathering place for small groups of friends who were supportive to our changed lives. At first, we had coffee and dessert get-togethers—whatever folks could manage on their lap, because we had no dining room furniture. Although Bonnie’s kids thought having picnics spread out on a table cloth on the floor was great fun, we weren’t brave or humble enough to try that out on friends. Slowly, we accumulated used side tables for the living room, a bed and chest of drawers for the kids’ room, a wobbly antique dining room table, and six dining room spindle-backed chairs purchased for eight dollars each at my workplace’s used furniture sale. We felt blessed to be able to have pieced together our first place.
We realized we were intentionally filling our new home with vibrant, loving energy—a palpable spirit that our guests noticed and commented on when they entered our apartment. We were nurturing Bonnie’s children by ensuring them a consistent place in our relationship. And we were building a history for our relationship, based on memories of laughter, spiritual learnings, and love, so that with each month and event behind us, we felt more grounded in our image as a couple.
Even with all of this, there was an explicit void in my life—none of this was occurring with my children. I had never heard their voices or their laughter in our apartment. I was desperate to know how to change our situation.
The Only Life I Could Save
Bonnie’s and my new life together seemed like an imaginary wrinkle in time that I stepped into and out from. Inside the wrinkle, I was cherished, respected, and valued. When I stepped outside its perimeter and reentered my former life, I felt vulnerable to shame, humiliation, and being deeply misunderstood.
Charles did everything in his power to prevent my children from coming to Bonnie’s and my apartment. After a few months, I was allowed to pick them up and meet with them, when they made themselves available. But those sweet serendipitous moments that occurred when living with my children didn’t happen when our meetings were manufactured in restaurants or with shopping trips.
There was a heavy onus on my making each moment together count, and ensuring that every subject and statement was carefully chosen, so that I could be simultaneously sensitive to their heightened feelings, and still tell my truth. That truth was that I chose to leave their father—not them—ever. He would not leave the family home, meaning I had to. And he refused to allow me to caretake our children with Bonnie, no matter where I lived.
She and I talked about the possibility of securing a court order against Charles to require the children to spend time with me. But the specter of the intense anger and retribution that legal action would elicit from Charles—as well as the church’s and my family’s support of the kids’ separation from me—might not have made any difference. The probable scenario was that, in the end, the kids might well have chosen not to be with Bonnie and me in any capacity.
With Charles, my extended family and most of my friends aligned against my decision to be with Bonnie, I was depicted by them to my children as an errant outcast, fallen from God’s grace. I know they were afraid, not just of who their father and my extended family said I had become, but of whether I would hurt them even more, when my words didn’t match what they wanted me to say and my lifestyle didn’t portray the person they needed me to be.
I wondered if my children and family’s intense response to my leaving Charles was due to the selfless role I had played, a role that didn’t allow me the right to do what I needed at the expense of what they wanted. I wasn’t healthy enough to go about creating change any differently than I did. How could I have altered my old patterns without breaking out? I knew that if I continued with my same patterns, I would die to my soul, and eventually my body would follow.
Virginia Woolf in her essay “Professions of Women” described the syndrome of living out the role of the servant who nurtures at the cost of herself:
“She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the neck; if there was a draft she sat in it—in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others … I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self-defense. Had I not killed her, she would have killed me.”
Nevertheless, my grief and fear around our family’s loss was profound. I wrote this dialogue with myself in my journal on April 5, just a few weeks after I left:
What will become of my babies? And what happened the night I left the house? Did they turn to and hold each other, or shrink away in confusion? Were they glad I was gone? Had I created an anxiety hell before I left, so that now, there was relief? What will become of them? What will become of me?
You, the protectress turned perpetrator. The loving-tree incredulously pulling up its roots and moving. The locus plucking itself out of the center of the family’s gravitational field. You destroyed the family you created. What right did you have to do that?
But how did I know in my innocent quest to find myself I would fall in love with my friend? I struggled privately—with Bonnie, and sometimes with our new friends—to deal with my guilt and sadness around my children’s and my loss. Writing in my journal to find comfort became my way of praying through my pain and illuminating the lesson I apparently needed about trusting my inner voice. A journal entry in May reads:
Today, I’ve tried to reach Marie, Michael, sister Carol, and my mother, to no avail. This frantic reaching out for my family often happens after Bonnie does something “traditional” or touching with her family. The loving feelings I see between her and Erin and the tenderness with which she participates in family events brings back memories of those kinds of times and celebrations with my children. And I feel a stinging pain from how empty my life now is of their presence.
As I walked today, my guides reminded me about the joy I can choose to have in the present and about how prayer does bring change on a deeper level. I know this is true. And I know that my present joy with my beloved Bonnie is my gift.
The only place I have in my children’s lives that is enriching and true these days is in my prayer life—on that miracle love-level.
But I continued to try to find some tangible place in my children’s lives. In my desperation to see them, I would sometimes just drive out to Eagan to see who was home. When the kids rebuffed my spontaneous appearances, I asked them to set up some sort of structure, so I cou
ld at least be assured of seeing and talking to them each week. I explained to them that I missed them and needed to have contact with them, and believed they did with me—that as my sons and daughters, we shared precious, unbreakable bonds.
Even this was not successful, for it appeared the more overt I was in my desire to be with them, the more they resisted. Just when I’d feel I couldn’t bear the children’s and my separateness any longer, someone offered the encouragement I needed. Bonnie’s and my dear friend Rachel was the “angel” who received (channeled) this message from her guidance:
These children were given to your keeping, but with a path very separate from your own. Your abundance of love balances their confrontation with darkness, and at times has been like a firefly, and at times like a strong beam.
Your sorrows with these children are of earthly matters. For in truth, there is a great oneness of spirit here, great connectedness through time, and thus a willingness to play out difficult lessons together.
There is no loss where love has been, only the illusion of separation. Focus only on the love within your heart. Give from that place, knowing each has a path which you are powerless to alter.
Find no insults in their turnings. Know these turnings are on their axis and in circles, not away. Forgive all pain and move ahead in your own turnings. These children are safe in God.
Renewed in my faith that my children and I remained connected in love, and that they were safe and had not been unduly harmed, I was once again able to pull up out of the downward spiral of my emotions and reenergize myself around the life I had chosen for now. Even more, I believed my children were on spiritual journeys of their own that I could trust them to pursue.
Years later, I came across this poem, “The Journey,” written by Mary Oliver: