I've getting over him.
For the last couple of months, I've been lamenting the idea that things could never get better than they were with him. Being with the last guy was out-of-this world, junior-high crush, I-can't-stop-thinking-about-him magical.
He held me at my father's grave and listened to my stories. We sang to each other, danced in his living room for hours. We read Walk Whitman; swam in a creek. I slathered my leg with mud and he drew a picture in it. We talked for hours, leaning against each other like two cottonwood trees. We camped under the stars and I sang to him. We hiked into the mountains and kissed in a forgotten grove of aspen as two beautiful birds landed in the tree above our heads and seemed to be there just for us.
He told me, something like: "Do you ever wonder if in a former life you helped plan some of the best moments of your life, as if you were a set designer." I thought he meant that this moment in the aspen grove had been one of the best he'd had-- at least in a long time.
A month later, when he had stopped calling and I was terrified of losing him, I drove up to Idaho, sick in my heart-- and walked with him along the Snake River, the same river I played in as a kid. The same river, apparently he was baptized in, close to the creek where I was baptized.
We walked through an forest of green in a place that was like a scene from a fairy tale. Two white pelicans landed on the glassy river. We stopped and he asked me what my favorite memory of us had been.
And I said, "Now; because we're still here, together." It was after nights of tears and confusion because he was acting indifferent. And all the good feelings and the potential was slipping from my fingers like water. I know it sounds dramatic, but how else is the heroine supposed to feel who believes she may have met man of her dreams only to have to say goodbye.
I told him, "If things end, all those good memories wouldn't mean much anymore."
"That's not how I feel," He said.
As though just memories were enough for him, this man who lived with a real woman for 19 years, whose memories or imagination, perhaps, became something that gave him comfort in the aloof and difficult "realness" of his marriage.
But my life is all about intangibles; a string of memories that end. I've never been married. My longest relationship was three years. And lately, little seems to stick. I didn't want to lose him. The flesh and blood him that put his arms around me as we stared at the river. The real man that was going to call me and want to see me again and again and again. Something of permanence.
It was only a brief relationship but for weeks I've been regretting meeting him. Wondering what good could come of it.
That is until today when I made the discovery, partially, because I stood and talked with his father in the church building where I had spent countless days learning about God when I was a kid and watched the Idaho light pass through the windows of the exposed timber A-frame chapel. For some reason, I could see something clearly for the first time since his son and I stopped dating.
I saw that what we had wasn't real. It was a fairy tale. Too perfect. The way we met, the way I felt so connected to his family-- how he brought me to the brilliant home he designed for his family (he's an architect.) The way he looked at me like I was a strange, lovely creature who fell from some beautiful planet-- at least that's how is gaze made me feel. And the fluidity with which love songs spilled out of my head and my heart through my guitar and how he encouraged me to sing them to him. And when I did, he cried. The way love felt so new in the summer and how I made the stupid assumption that my search might be finally over, after looking for so long.
I wanted things to grow slowly, but steadily. But he just couldn't keep my pace, although he actually set the pace. He couldn't stay steady. Went into hiding. I scared him, although I thought I had given him plenty of space.
So now, the reason why I can let go is this:
I know now that it was fantasy, down to every detail. And fairy tales don't last. It's like my mom said recently:
"Maybe it was like a lollipop, when the sweetness was all gone, there was nothing left but a stick."
For weeks I've been blaming the universe, my bad luck at meeting a wonderful guy and everything seemed to be so good and then it was all snatched away. I've wondered: Can I ever trust my heart again? Can I ever trust God?
It was as if God let me create my idea of the perfect relationship and let me live it for awhile. It seemed so perfect, but, guess what? It didn't work. It was just fiction. It never lasted and probably never would.
I think God gives you what you want, although it may not- and likely is not-- what is best for you.
So I've been praying different now. Saying, "Thanks a lot for indulging me. But it did crumble too easily. It was one-sided. As the heroine, I was ready to lay down too much for it, while he couldn't even call me back. That's lame."
And lately I've been asking to see something different than I had planned.
And now I know more about who God is. He's the one there telling me to THROW IT ALL AWAY. To watch for sweet imperfection-- that one I never expected. To watch, to wait and stop pretending that it has to look and act a certain way.
So I'll wait for the new narrative to begin-- the one that God's fingerprints are on.
I'm ready. I've broken the fairy tale..God is tricky. He makes things a mystery that you have to flex your brain to discover the meaning of. But he knows exactly what he's doing.
So if you every come back, hero of my fairy tale. I'll tell you this: It was fun and exciting but I'm a sucker for reality-- a sucker for imperfection. So unless you're offering something that won't blow away like pages torn from a book, then it's okay if you stay away. I'll be just fine.
