Dreamhopper* Part 9. (Death, Life, Twin Flames, Anniversaries, Grief & Other Human Stuff)
I’m writing this on the day that was our wedding anniversary. I’m not sure where these words will take us, yet there is this compulsion to say, to someone alive, that “It was good”. There is a reason to celebrate love, regardless of what tense it refers to. Right now, I’m willing to consider that “past” is illusory. Once love is found, it is not lost, regardless of the location or physicality of whoever you felt it with.
I had breakfast with a dear friend last week. She is a good deal older than I am, and she told me the moment she fell in love with the man who would become her 2nd husband. It was New Year's Eve. He was part of a group of her friends, who were all at the same party. Everyone was hugging and kissing the New Year in. They kissed, and she said it was like a lightning bolt went through the both of them. Her eyes were all sparkly as she told this story. He’s been gone for twenty years, and she still lights up whenever she speaks of him.
There is a tendency to entertain regret when someone dies. Things are clearer in the rear-view mirror than they ever were when they were straight-on. Yet, that is where we live, in full view of whatever is in front of us. Hindsight happens later.
I wish I could tell you that ours was a storybook romance and that I have no regrets about any part of it. Yet that would be a lie. There is a suitcase of things I wish I’d done or said or not done or not said. I’ve decided to leave it behind. It isn’t helping anyone if I keep it.
I reside now in a state of constant awareness that anything or anyone could be gone at any moment and without warning. Appreciation is a much more expansive state to be in than regret, and I am humbled by the love that I’ve received. My goal from here on is to remain grateful as much as possible, without unpacking my suitcase of regret. I think that the rest of this trip will be more fun that way.
I would like to tell you about some moments that filled up my heart because that’s the good stuff. And by reliving them here, I get to feel full once more, and so do you.
Someone took a picture of us right after we’d exchanged vows… We were standing in front of the altar; the minister was behind us. I only noticed later, after the photos had been developed and shared (remember those days?), that he was raising his arm up with a huge grin on his face. I asked him about it, and he explained “I was never sure you’d go through with it. That was the moment I knew for sure.”
There was once when I received flowers on a random day in February. It was the day I’d first managed to zip up my jeans after giving birth to one of our children the month before. “Happy Jeans Day!” was written on the card. Much better than a Valentine.
The first gifts he ever gave me were 2 books — a hard-cover dictionary and a thesaurus. He said, “Now go write something!”
We didn’t know anything about “twin flames” at first, but we could feel the fire. Our interactions were often at a level pinned to ten. We argued that way, laughed that way, and played that way.
I think we got together to wake each other up. We were all sorts of a mess at the beginning. It was sometimes shattering to work through all that we did, yet we always connected the pieces back together, a little bit stronger than they had been before.
As our children grew up, we began to mellow. We were content with being together and didn’t need anyone else to have a good time. It didn’t matter what we were doing. We were pretty much a pair of happy loners. This was why we decided we’d have to exit at the same time. So much for that plan.
It’s not the stuff he got me or even the things we did that kept me filled up. It was the love that lit his eyes up whenever he looked at me. It was the love that I felt when I looked at him. The years may have changed our outward appearance and how we spent our time, but it did nothing to diminish the fire within.
I think about what a gift love is. It cannot be wrapped or monetized, yet it feels priceless and gorgeous beyond description.
Once, we relived another lifetime. This one hadn’t ended well. It took place in Ireland. He was an alcoholic and left me with a bunch of children. We managed to energetically drop into that life and heal that wound, together, in this lifetime. Afterward, he said “You were heavier”, which made me laugh. He also said, “I was such a wimp”, which also made me laugh. He was crying as we worked through and healed what was so, so painful. That process brought us closer. It helped us understand why this lifetime was so very special for us, as well as the baggage we’d carried into it.
More recently, I’d begun working out of the house, while his contract work was done from home. My hours are in the afternoons and evenings. One day a week he had an orchestra rehearsal, so I’d return to an empty house. He told me that he’d always appreciated having dinner waiting (when I was home with our children) at the end of the day. To return the favor, he made dinner on the days I was out. On orchestra day, he’d fix a salad and leave it in the refrigerator. He’d leave a note on the table, “Salad in frig”. He used the same note every week, which made me smile.
He died on rehearsal day. Early the next morning, I found that same note on the dining room table, this time with “over” written on the top. I turned the paper over to find these words “Lettuce is bad, no salad”. And that was how he said goodbye, wanting me to know that he didn’t forget about me.
It’s the little things that hold us together, long after the big stuff has either let go or ended. The note shown in the picture above is something I found today, written on an old anniversary card. I’m not sure what year it was from, yet that scarcely matters. His words transcend time, sort of like love, and I’m grateful for both.
I believe in you. I believe in us. I believe in love.
*Dreamhopper aka DH — a soul who “hops dreams”.
