Embracing My Inner Feline, Divorce-Style

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Or say, So what are you really here to tell me?

Or say, So what are you really here to tell me?

Limantour Beach is but one of the jewels of the Point Reyes National Seashore.  The wilderness that backs the beach is just as wildly beautiful as the ocean that fronts it.  From the ridge, trees kept rich by fog look over one another as the land gives way to the sea.  These trees conceal an entire society that excels at being unseen.  As I gaze at the rising mounds of earth from the coast I see a bird fly and vanish, then another, but then nothing.  No movement, even though millions of critters large and small are going about their day.  The sight reminds me of taking a boat ride around Manhattan and seeing the buildings tightly packed in and rising up for air, but hearing none of the sounds of the millions of people that pound its pavement.

My spirit wants to enter their world and not emerge for days, fearlessly exploring places where humans don’t wander.  My human self would make it ten paces in, feel the trees close in on me and want to bolt.  Kind of like how I feel when I enter The Genius’ attorney offices.

I’m cool with being vulnerable where matters of the heart are concerned, fearless even.  But when it comes to having my heart ripped out by a giant version of a house cat (Ever been bitten by a house cat?) I can conjure up the terror that would rack my body – it’s a terror I’ve never come close to experiencing.

I’ve never been that scared.  And I don’t want to be.

But the forest is so alluring.  Densely packed Douglas firs and Bishop pines with pockets of clear floor under their soaring canopies.  The smell of sap and bark and decomposing needles and leaves.  Hills to climb on trails never made, feeling the burn in thighs as sunlight gets closer.  The white noise of a quiet forest, punctuated by bird screams and scampering squirrels.  Insects all around but inconspicuous in an effort to eat rather than be eaten.

Elk, deer, coyote, jackrabbits, bats, raccoons, Kingsnakes, Rattlesnakes, spiders of all shapes and sizes and degrees of creepiness, bears even.  But no other animal in the Pt. Reyes Wilderness makes the knees of humans and animals alike shiver more than a Mountain Lion.  Or, Cougar, if you will – not to be confused with those of the human variety that hunt youthful men instead of fawns, mainly in towns, not the wilderness.

The Mountain Lion has many names – Puma and Panther among them, because they were named by many.  They have the largest range of any mammal in the Western Hemisphere, found from Canada to Argentina.

Mothers raise their young for the first year to two, teaching them to hunt, and then they are encouraged (sometimes with a cold shoulder or worse) to move on to their own land.  Freeing the Mother up to mate again.

It was one such yearling that shot across Mesa Road as we returned from our swim in Bass Lake.  I don’t recall ever being so fully present and aware of every millisecond that passed as I watched her fly into the road from the right, bent like a backward S, her tail out of sight.  I watched my mind direct my eyes to key parts of her body to identify her.

No tail, Bobcat.  Tail, Fox.  Sleek fur, long tail.  Mountain Lion??!?  Can’t be.

Her head turned toward the car.  Two petite ears pointed forward on a head far too small for what will soon be a long and powerful body.  Her fur was flat and tawny.  Cheekbones like a supermodel, with a jaw that could snap a human neck.  I saw one eye.

And then she was gone.

Someone was behind us and off to the ocean side of the road – they must have seen her, too.  There was no need to compare notes.  What we saw was the type of wild cat that I expect to see when I finally make it to Africa.  Or, maybe catch a glimpse of while I am on a trail deep in the woods.  I didn’t expect to see her dart across the road two miles from my driveway.

She was small, and I was in a car, but that didn’t stop my heart from freezing.  Not because of fear.  I was in awe.

These wild cats really do roam the forest surrounding my home.  Wow.

The next night I was driving back from taking a walk on Stinson Beach.  I spent the time on the sand reminding myself of the unique blessing of living in Bolinas, letting thoughts of divorce or fears or hyper-self-analysis float out to meet the fog that sat suspended between sky and sea a mile offshore.  If my mind drifted I would bring it back to the golden grasses and evergreens, or the gentle slope of the sand that allowed waves to break and wash ashore as if each was holding the final note of a song they’ve been singing since they were born.

I looked beyond the surface of the water and imagined the scenes beneath.  Halibut laying on the ocean floor, seals sailing along the coast heading for the lagoon, mussels and starfish clinging to rocks covered with water and surrounded by ling cod.  To my right, hills more populated than New York City, Chicago and San Francisco combined.  I’m one beating heart on a parcel of land that is host to a billion.

The billion beating hearts of Bolinas.

My concentration on all things nature had me thanking the Eucalyptus trees for always welcoming me home as I turned on Mesa.  It was twilight.  Dark enough to make the headlights bright.  And through both beams ran a Mountain Lion just as I came upon the firehouse.

It was the same Mountain Lion.  Coming from my right across to my left, with her tail hidden at first and then, as she came out of her backwards S shape it flew in front of the light and then out straight from her back as she took a short leap off the road.  I saw the side of her face, her cheekbone, her killer jaw and one eye, now white with light, before she disappeared into the grasses.

It was the same Mountain Lion.  I just know.  Just like I know it’s a girl.  Right around puberty, I imagine, establishing her territory and living on her own for the first time.  Foraging.  Getting to know her strengths and weaknesses, facing fears and learning from close calls, savoring her first successful hunt, and taking time to play and be curious.

She and I are walking parallel paths.  Only she can do cool stuff like jump 40 feet and probably doesn’t spend nearly the amount of time I do being concerned about aging, even though she will age faster.

With two back-to-back Mountain Lion sightings I didn’t stop to pet the dog when I arrived home but got right to the totem cards.

The Mountain Lion’s message begins with the need to balance the body, mind and spirit.  On the days of both sightings I was doing just that.  Look at me!  So in the flow with the Mountain Lion!  And then, as I read on, the paths diverged.

The Mountain Lion understands that all beings are potential leaders in their own way and leads herself without insisting others follow.

…lead without insisting others follow…

That seems like a load off, right?  No need to look back and see if everyone is keeping pace.  Just walk on, be a living example to only ourselves.  To others we are someone to encounter – it’s up to them how they engage with us based on their needs.  Our energy can be spent on our journey and not trying to convince them to join us.

(I immediately applied this lesson to my conversation with Mr. Viking.  I was insisting he follow my lead.  And when he didn’t I was disappointed in him.  Not just disappointed.  But disappointed in him.)

Mountain Lion medicine is about learning to act instead of being indecisive.  Being courageous and brave, and responsible.  As a responsible leader of one, we choose how to react to situations.  Happiness is derived from how we respond, not what we get or who loves us or how good looking we are, but simply from how we respond to situations.  (Somebody did some studies, this is what they concluded, and I couldn’t agree more.  I just can’t remember who they were.)  And self-love has a lot to do with how we chose to respond to situations.

No wonder the Mountain Lion has such a long tail.  It shows us how things come full circle.

While my mind went right to the conversation with Mr. Viking, my soul was preparing for a whole ‘nother animal with the wisdom from the Mountain Lion.

Saturday was the tall dude’s birthday.  They were with The Genius for the weekend, so I asked tall dude to call me when he was preparing to open his present.  A present that The Genius and I selected together.  All part of this collaborative, compassionate, cordial experience I’ve chosen to create.  It’s been a success.  The dudes are more relaxed.  Our encounters are not filled with tension.  I can look him in the eye.  I haven’t folded in small talk, but then it’s not my thing anyway.  Trust me when I say that I can never envision a time when I will have a deep thoughts style conversation with TG.  But I have shared pictures on my phone, told stories of the boys’ adventures or updates about school.

It wasn’t all that long ago that I couldn’t even speak to him.  Massive progress.

All of which was nearly obliterated by Skype.

(Somebody needs to do a study on the number of relationships destroyed by something seen or read on Skype.)

On the morning of the tall dude’s birthday I spent my time in solitude taking back the memories of that day and making sure they were not polluted by the actions of The Genius.  In the days leading to his birthday I felt appropriately melancholy about not being able to celebrate seminal moments in the dudes’ lives with the man who helped create them.  Sure, we’ll both attend birthday parties and graduations, but we won’t be celebrating together.  Now we celebrate alone.

Or so I naively thought.

The tall dude called and I sang to him.  His request to Skype was eagerly accepted.  I wanted to see his blue starburst eyes grow and then squeeze shut with joy as he pulled out his new skim board.  But I missed that part because I was distracted by several female voices and then drop-kicked by the sight of a young girl running in to the video frame to help the tall dude unwrap his gift.

The Instafamily was in town.

And no adult on duty thought it might be a good choice to usher out the happy little forever family so the actual Dad and Mom could have this moment with their son?  I am honoring the tall dude’s birthday alone, without him.  Which was never part of the agreement.  (For the HGM record, I am mad that I am not with the dudes full time.  Occasionally I feed it a crumb and get on with life.  I don’t flog myself with it, but sometimes I feel the burn.)  The Genius couldn’t take a moment to think, We don’t need to make this suck any more for her?  The Happy Dance Chick, a mother herself, doesn’t have the sense to remove herself and her family from the room to make it easier for everybody?  Is she completely without empathy?  Forethought?  Brain cells?

No.  No.  No.  And yes.  Yes.  Yes.

The Genius could have set it up to succeed because he cared, not doomed it to fail because he didn’t.

At that moment I felt like I had been attacked by a Mountain Lion, not lead by one.  I trembled with tears, I sobbed, I fought mightily to not throw up.  My hands shook for over an hour.  I actually thought about doing a shot of tequila, but it was still morning.  (I am responsible, just not made of steel.)  This feeling I had was the closest I’ve come to what I experienced on the day I searched for the word love in Skype on The Genius’ computer.

I felt gutted.

After an exchange of texts where excuses were made and apologies given, but unfortunately the lies are still coming so I can’t believe the apologies, I put my phone in another room and just let the tears flow.  I made a decision to let myself feel it hard.  That choice was motivated by an intense desire to not give to him another moment of my life.  Not another freaking moment.  So I couldn’t just push it away and “move on”, I had to sit with the pain of not being with my son on his birthday, having the Instafamily shoved down my throat without warning, and being face to face with the callousness that is their way of life.  I had to sit with it so I could transform the pain into something a whole lot more productive.  Maybe it wouldn’t be happiness, but at least a productive kind of sadness.

In between bouts of tears, I had imaginary conversations with The Genius.  You know the type.  Walking the path that circles The Calmmune, I let the words come and then go.  I breathed deeply.  I cried.  Just cried.  Then thoughts of the Mountain Lion and the message she brings.  By the time I clocked a mile and came to the crest of the hill, a smile was ready to come forth.  I turned to Stinson Beach to see waves leaving a long line of whipped water at the edge of shore and hills that rose sharply toward a brilliant blue sky.  The sun was warm.  The air scented with a myriad of smells from wild flowers that taste like cucumbers to laurel blossoms and lavender.  I felt light.  And focused.

In my walk I decided to do something that would nurture me – finish hanging pictures and take my room from almost unpacked to stylized.  As I moved through each task I felt at peace.  I was consciously in the moment.  Being fully present allowed me to pick up on signs of love – the tall dude’s favorite song coming up on Pandora first, finding the tall dude’s birth card with his height and weight and name, time of birth, and receiving an email from my Mom sent to me before knowing the details of my morning.  It was the telling of one woman’s way of handling stress.

She was speaking to a group of people and picked up a half full glass.  They braced for the question – half empty or half full.  She came at them with, How heavy?  Some guessed 4 ounces or 10 ounces.  She replied:

It depends on how long you hold on to it.

Just like with stress.

After spending 2 hours coming down from a thoughtless 2 minutes on Skype, I put down the glass.  And the desire to once again cut off all contact with The Genius.  Instead I’m going to honor the Mountain Lion and lead without insisting others follow.  My choice to be thoughtful and cordial and compassionate should not be altered by the actions of others.  I am that way because I choose to be that way, not because I am trying to manipulate an outcome or person.

My actions don’t affect the actions of others.  Their choice is their choice.  My only responsibility is to chose how I respond.

Skype ripped me open yet again, but this time a potent lesson was woven throughout my core before I sealed back up:  I am a leader of one.  I will not insist others follow.  Like the Mountain Lion, I may often be alone when being tested, but with the opportunity to concentrate in solitude, I can hone my skills and focus on expanding my knowledge and spirituality.

My memory of the tall dude’s 8th birthday is this: a growth spurt for me – spiritually, emotionally and intellectually, and his beautiful face when he pulled the skim board from the box.  I didn’t miss it after all.

We’re off to the beach to ride the foamy waves and listen to that last note of their song.

Love yourself,

Cleo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Into the Forest I Go, But I’m Not Alone

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Bass Lake, on a not-so-green day.

Bass Lake, on a not-so-green day.

Seeking solitude this time of year is like trying to avoid the colors of red and green at Christmas.  The end of a school year brings picnics, BBQs, swim parties, the tall dude’s birthday, many co-hangs with The Genius, and then all the assorted encounters as I shop and prepare for picnics, BBQs, birthdays, co-hangs and farewell parties.

It’s social mayhem.  I’ve done Limbo, Musical Chairs, wrestled the fifth cookie away from hands that clutched it in a sugar-fueled frenzy, swam laps in my lane while the rest of the pool was teeming with students bidding farewell to another year of youth, all while a little voice says, You’re not in the forest, you’re not in the forest.

Shhhh….pipe down.  I know I’m not.  I’m in a car, I’m in a store, I’m squeezing in a workout so I don’t freak out, I’m up to my ears in dishes that haven’t been cleaned since the water stopped flowing at The Calmmune.  I’m pondering, planning, procrastinating, and partying.

Has anyone seen the forest for the trees?

Since I psychically walked away, all that I left behind has been right on my tail begging to be tended to and understood.  My Mom served it up to me like the many miraculous casseroles she’d fashion out of air that somehow fed 10 people.

I saw you walking away, like I’ve seen you do before.  Implying that I did it in a huff, or out of frustration.

At first I defended my actions.  I had to, Mom.  The encounter needed to end.  It wasn’t going anywhere.  It wasn’t serving a purpose.

But of course it was.

When I wrote the last post I felt I had it all figured out.  I was out of sorts after the conversations with Mr. Jackpot and Mr. Viking, but once I realized that we’re not good at open, honest, thoughtful, compassionate communication with each other in the moment, it seemed simple.  We’re just not good at it.  So keep the friendships light and easy and avoid creating scenarios where someone’s needs aren’t being met or conversations touch nerves too raw to be prodded.  Basically keep it all on the surface, not quite small talk but definitely not large.

Focus instead on getting into the forest alone to explore those big questions that I find most fascinating.  I’m exhausted by the 3D, and I just need to move on.

But I couldn’t.  For the past 5 days I kept coming back to those two conversations with Mr. Jackpot and Mr. Viking.  Having been so certain that I had extracted the right lesson – you’re not going to be able to communicate smoothly with everyone, no need to analyze further, run along – I was confused as to why I was still playing them out, looking for the purpose, even though I had originally thought there wasn’t one.

I tried to write it out but it wasn’t budging.  My head felt empty, no words, no thoughts, no epiphanies.  With so many distractions, so much keeping me tethered to the ground, I couldn’t get up in the atmosphere where I often get a much clearer view.  Snippets of understanding would appear and then vanish before I could grab them and link them together to solve the puzzle.

I tried to walk away but I was being followed.

You can walk away from your own creations, Cleo, but what you create will stay with you until you weave it into your being and allow it to work its magic.  

My Mom has always guided me, I just haven’t always listened in the moment.  But as I’ve gotten older, and definitely since the Pocket Call, when she speaks I tune in.  At first I might   think she doesn’t see the whole picture, or I haven’t thoroughly explained the situation, so her guidance is not a direct hit, but within a few days it clicks.  Bullseye.

Her reaction to my walk away sent me back to those conversations to seek the reason as to why I created them.  She reminded me that I am a creator of my reality.  To walk away is to ignore my own creation.  That’s like baking a cake and throwing it in the garbage without grabbing a fork and pulling out a steaming hunk to taste what flour and eggs and flavor can become.

I can conclude that we’re just not good communicators and leave it at that, or I can accept that I created those situations and seek the meaning for me.  Mr. Jackpot and Mr. Viking can choose to seek the meaning for them.

School’s still in session.

Today’s classes were scrapped for a field trip to Bass Lake.  Much has occurred on The Calmmune that I will share soon.  My Fairy Godparents have departed for Europe, leaving the kids on the Mesa to keep peace and make merriment.  A family has moved into the last vacant house on the property, next to another married couple, completing a circle I didn’t know was being constructed.

The two women are the Two Witches.  At varying speeds, we’ve all ridden our brooms to the same conclusion: we are meant to be here, together.  I don’t know why, and I’m in no rush to figure it all out, but this gathering of beings is otherworldly.  Trust me on it, and be excited for the tales I will tell for I assure you they will be magical.  Like today’s field trip.

Bass Lake sits on the coast where the Point Reyes wilderness meets the northern tip of Bolinas, accessible by a wide trail that ascends and dips through groves of Eucalyptus trees and wild orchids, berry bushes and stinging nettle.  At points the sunglasses come off so the rocky trail can be seen under the shade of the forest canopy, and at other times the glare from the pitch perfect blue ocean bouncing back to the sun its light reduces sunglasses to a fashion accessory.  The trail skims the edges of cliffs, the ocean crashing on a crescent moon sized beach down below.  Deep emerald green pine trees climb up the hills, their branches each visible no matter how far away they are, backlit by a blue bubble gum sky, if bubble gum was blue.  Swaths of camel colored land snake between the groves of trees making the entire landscape appear as if it was black and white but is now colorized.  The greens so rich and so many different shades, the land honey and straw, the sky like blue cotton candy at a county fair.

Then, at the crest of a hill, the brush drops away and to the west is a placid lake a shade of green that makes one think, nuclear meltdown.

Not exactly the kind of color that makes you want to strip off your clothes and dive in, unless you also happen to have a hazmat suit, face mask and an assortment of antidotes for whatever flesh eating disease you are bound to acquire.

One of the witches (I’m playing with names) joined me on the hike.  As we prepared to leave The Calmmune she said, Grab your bathing suit!

I’ve wanted to swim in Bass Lake since I first heard about it from my Fairy Godparents, but I needed to warm up to the idea.  You can’t see the bottom.  It’s cold.  And there may be a slight chance of the Bolinas version of the Loch Ness monster, which would for sure take the form of a giant arachnid.

Imagine how fast that thing could swim.

I was a bit deflated after having a conversation with the local surf shop dude about swimming in the ocean off Stinson Beach, a seemingly perfect place to swim ocean laps – long, gentle waves, easy in and easy out.

If you don’t get eaten.  He basically said he wouldn’t get in that water without a board to protect his vital organs.

I didn’t have a follow up question.

Then, because sometimes s…tuff has to knock on my door a thousand times to get let in, I realized I could swim in Bass Lake!  It’s not a pond but a real lake, although not one that requires a boat to explore it.  It qualifies as open water.  Maybe a third of a mile long, could be longer.  (Judging distance over water is like guessing the distance between two stars for me.)  It’s shape that of a wide fluffy cloud drawn with a little hand.  It sits below the Palomarin Trail, surrounded by trees that descend right to the water’s edge, their roots plunged in like feet after a long, hot hike.

Across the lake, nestled in a 2-person cove, hangs a rope swing.  Beyond it is the ocean, unseen.

The Witch and I took the narrow path off Palomarin Trail into a clearing where we sat on a blanket in the sun to warm our bodies before a refreshing swim.  After changing into our suits we walked barefoot down a rocky path that led to a perfect spot to step in and push off.  Tree branches thick with leaves bent down to the water, obscuring the view of the lake and the hills that rise right off it.

The Witch pushed off first and was soon out of sight on the other side of leaves.  My feet clutched the rocks beneath them.  The water was cold, but I’ve been in pools in New England that have been colder.  And it certainly wasn’t as cold as the ocean.

In I went.  And when I emerged from the trees, the rest of the other million trees stood all around this massive, liquid, glowy green stage like a general admission audience at a theater in the round production, leaving me stunned.  I wanted to swim but the urge to float on my back and honor this gorgeous site with my full attention won out.

A butterfly sped across the water and flew right over my face.

The Witch lifted a moth off the water with her finger, letting him dry his wings until he could fly away.  He chose to stay so she placed him on her head like a Marin version of a fascinator and swam into the middle of the lake where he eventually took flight.

The water was warm (ish) a foot below the surface, but then turned icy.  My body felt like it was swimming in two different places.  Both stunningly beautiful.  A hiker watched us frolic from the trail up above.  Birds called and darted over the water, then returned to the safety of the forest.  Our splashes and laughter the only other sounds.

On my back, gazing at a near cloudless sky, gratitude spilling out for the gift of being able to hike to a clean lake and swim in the midst of such natural splendor, I asked for guidance.  Help me to pick through the red herrings and find the meaning in my encounters with Mr. Jackpot and Mr. Viking, and my non-encounters with Mr. Wildcard.  My initial reaction, that it was nothing more than an inability to effectively communicate, wasn’t cutting it.

Help me see what’s going on here.  

I became aware of how everything around me felt so big.  So tall.  So far away and huge.  The lake so wide when in the midst of it.  And I felt like a tiny but important part of the scenery.  Small in body but expansive in energy.  Full of play and spirit.  Able to make the trees dance and the clouds stand still.  Able to swim through the wind and currents, sending ripples out with my kicks that traveled to the farthest shores.

I lead with my energy.

In some instances, with those I believe I know well, I assume they will share my level of enthusiasm for an idea or opinion on a matter, like I did when I spoke with Mr. Viking about a man neither of us know who I felt was doing something totally cool.

Mr. Viking felt otherwise.  As in the exact opposite way.  I was unprepared for that because I assumed he’d see it how I saw it.

Is there any other way?  

I stopped just shy of insisting he see it my way, but held my ground with such passion that the message was, You’re not getting this.  Alpha males don’t really dig that.  So our conversation flatlined.  All words, no forward progress.  No growth.

No growth.

A missed opportunity.

The encounter with Mr. Viking was a great lesson in how my energy can affect another.  How important it is to be aware of the energy I put out and be considerate of its power and affect.  Instead of creating an environment where healthy debate could occur, I created one where both of us were defending our personal beliefs in an emotionally charged setting with neither of us really wanting to understand the other’s opinions.  I went in assuming he’d share mine and was disappointed in him that he didn’t.

I’ve done this before.  I did this with The Genius.  Often.

I’m not walking away from Mr. Jackpot or Mr. Viking or Mr. Wildcard.  I’m walking away from old ways of being that don’t represent who I am inside today.  Who I need to be.  I’m shedding habits and patterns and the unseen attachement to who I was as a wife.  Some things are easy to shift, easy to let go of, and others require retraining.

Or learning how to do it right for the very first time.

On the hike back from Bass Lake, The Witch and I talked about communication.  I peppered her with questions about how she learned to express herself.  In the moments of quiet as we climbed a hill or stood still to stare down at the ocean, I saw the beauty in allowing others the space and time to own and communicate their opinions, thoughts, feelings.  They are real.  They deserve to be heard and not cured.  With compassion there need not be a reason to feel offended if an opinion or belief isn’t shared.  With honesty, there is respect.  An appreciation for our varying points of view.

The deer tells me to venture into the forest to discover my magic in solitude.  Perhaps he also means that in the company of another I can remain in the forest while giving them the opportunity to be in the clearing, the space to be.

With all these deer around it should be no surprise that a mountain lion crossed our path.

Love yourself,

Cleo

 

 

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Shot Out of a Cannon, Divorce-Style, And Into the Forest

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Is that a Stag? says the seal. Is that a forest? says the Stag.

Is that a Stag? says the seal. Is that a forest? says the Stag.

Craving, as defined by Merriam-Webster,  is an intense, urgent or abnormal desire or longing.

As defined by me, a craving is a red herring.

Lust after that so you don’t look too deeply over here, because you may have to do some serious excavation, and you know how laborious that can be!  And potentially frightening!  Are you sure you don’t want to just [have sex, scarf that bagel, buy those shoes, call in sick and spend another 10 hours watching Game of Thrones, desire that which won't help you achieve what you really desire]?

You know all about my cravings.  As with all that I write here, once it’s down and out, the fog pulls back as if it’s noon on the mesa.  And there, for me to look at and smile or wince or shudder or shrug my shoulders, sits the answer to my question.  Often times it’s a question I haven’t asked, but need to.

Writing about my distracting level of prepubescent boy-craziness lit the fuse.  And today the cannon went bang.  As the fuse was burning down I kept ignoring the crackling and sizzling.  I wanted to be out, be social.  I wanted to get caught up in the early summer celebrations and mingle and let encounters lead where they may.

I wanted to be all girly.

I didn’t have time for looking around to see that I was slowly sliding down the chase of a cannon, my head just above its muzzle.  I was having too much fun!  Hence, a parade of characters (I mean that in the nicest thespian way) came to deliver the news:  You are swinging in the exact opposite direction of where you need to go.  We’re sending you back.

Hold on tight!

On the night I met the golf pro, the soccer announcer and the male stripper, I had the most strained encounter yet with Mr. Wildcard.  We’ve been awkward with each other for some time, but this night I felt that my presence was making him uncomfortable.  Not in a huge way, but enough to make me want to tap into his brain and ask it directly, Why the shift?  Why did we go from a budding friendship (not just via text! :-0 How novel!) to cordial but stilted, and only if interaction was absolutely necessary?

I don’t have an answer for you because I haven’t posed the question.  One day I’ll know, when the mood is right.

I felt him behind me as I stood at the table of the visiting gents from England, saying goodbye as they finished their dinner.  A quick goodnight became an impromptu conversation on honest, open, thoughtful, and compassionate communication, with a married man, a single man and one with a girlfriend, and me, divorced.  (In days.)

Why aren’t people more straightforward?  Yes, ask for it!  (I think the stripper said that.)  Just say what’s on your mind.

Or in your heart, I added.

When the conversation veered toward adultery, the married man said he would end his marriage before he would cross that line.  If the urge was so strong that he needed to act on it, it would mean his marriage was over, and there was no reason to complicate matters further by engaging in an affair.

Smart man.

As we whipped through a weekend’s worth of Relationships 101 in about 10 minutes, the segue between topics always seemed to end with the same sentiment – You have to be willing to engage in honest, productive communication in the moment, and you both have to be really good at it with each other.

After I asked the stripper for a fifth time, Are you really a stripper?, to which he demurely smiled, popped open his dark chocolate eyes, and laughed, Yes! I bid farewell.

Mr. Wildcard was gone.

Hugging the curves on Highway 1, the Bolinas lagoon at near high tide, I stopped trying to figure out what happened between Mr. Wildcard and me, and just accepted that something did.  The way we interact now doesn’t make me feel good.  But instead of both of us acknowledging the obvious and feeling comfortable enough with each other to address it, we are pretending to be distant friends.

We’re not good at open, honest, thoughtful, compassionate communication with each other in the moment.  

I have to walk away.

In this case not literally – west Marin is a small community, I’d just bump into him again.  In all cases not literally…actually.  I have to walk away psychically.  (I’m not fully sure what I mean by that, but it’s the word seems to fit.)

After I spilled my guts here about my craving for non-marital sex (the horror!), Mr. Jackpot called me.  We hadn’t spoken since our fishing trip, when a great day ended with his needs not being met.  (I’m not talking about primal needs.)  I didn’t find out the reason for the abrupt and testy end to our day until the phone call.

The conversation was like a tennis match between two drunks.  Moments of accidental brilliance made even more brilliant by the epic failures.

We’re not good at open, honest, thoughtful, compassionate communication with each other in the moment.  

I have to walk away.

Not literally, but psychically.

In the last two weeks I have been inundated by glimpses into relationships with varying degrees of commitment and varying degrees of success.  From being witness to a fight between a couple, to listening to a married couple share a tale of a brave and maybe misguided choice that ultimately sent them on a life-changing adventure, to a woman exploring post-divorce encounters and experiencing the highs and lows that we don’t like to admit we miss when we are married.  (The bittersweet lows, not the ugly ones.)

So much is emoted out when we are engaged in a relationship, regardless of the level of commitment.  When human emotions are stoked, even briefly, magical things happen.  Experiences that empty us, in good and taxing ways, both beneficial.  But I was beginning to feel drained by the effort needed to engage in heavy dialogue that was spoken and that which has been left unsaid.

On the heels of my conversation with Mr. Jackpot, I caught up with a kitten with whom I’ve become friends after he helped me out in the most profound way.  Based on past experience with his sense of humor, I knew I’d take a few hits for my most recent post.  I thought perhaps he’d offer to find the antidote to Lybrido or send me links to YouTube videos of puppies frolicking through a picnic strewn meadow populated by nuns, all in an effort to settle my urges.

I was a tad off base.

He went above and beyond the call of duty, even by kitten standards, and offered to have sex with me.

That is taking one for the team.

We shared a fantastic laugh while I sat under a dark Bolinas sky filled with black and grey clumps of fast moving fog.  I didn’t have much in the way of witty replies, but relied on short bursts of laughter to take the place of words.

I mean, what do you say?

My Mom is shouting, Say No, but thank you for offering! right now.

I didn’t take him up on his most generous extension of support.  Which, in all honesty, was made as a joke.

Maybe, kind of.  I think.

That night I slid into fresh sheets (love) and battled for the pillow with my ever present, domineering man, High Maintenance Kitty, wondering why I didn’t throw caution to the wind and ask Mr. Wildcard about the sudden temperature dip in our friendship when it first occurred, or why I didn’t ask Mr. Jackpot, in a way that made him feel safe to reply, the reason for the chill after a day of fun in the sun right in the moment.  I even wondered why I didn’t say, Yes, please! to the offer of a roll in catnip (Bad puns – sometimes they’re irresistable.) from a kitten.  Even if it was said in jest, there was a message hidden in the poke and wink.  Not from the kitten, from the Universe.

I found it all exhausting and fell asleep.  Something I’ve been quite good at lately.  Staying asleep, however, is impossible when small, furry paws with claws that don’t retract are constantly petting my face, and a gritty tongue is licking my hair.  The fact that I have even one amorous thought is remarkable to me.  I feel mauled in my own bed, and I’m spent.

With just a smidge of cord left on a fuse that’s been burning for near two weeks, I met Mr. Viking for lunch on a day when he was in town.  With his travel we’d only seen each other once since the wedding and had barely talked, for no other reason (Uh-huh, says the Universe) than busy lives.  When the date was set I was excited, but as it approached I was feeling uneasy.  On the drive to the restaurant I felt like I was going meet my boyfriend.

So we could break up.

I smugly discarded the concrete sensation as waste from an overactive, and therefor delirious, emotional body.

We went from hug, hello!, kiss, kiss to talking in circles of barbed wire about someone neither of us knew.  The subject is only important in the sense that it highlighted that We’re not good at open, honest, thoughtful, compassionate communication with each other in the moment.  

So I walked away.  Psychically and physically.  I had to.  I was shot out of a cannon.

With ancient Bruce Springsteen just a little too loud and an open road leading me into the west Marin hills, my feisty self thought, This is all good, man.  All these encounters that sizzle, burn, flame up or out are opportunities to learn!

And then my Observer Self hauled off and smacked me right when I was singing, The screen door slams…

You are engaging in encounters that aren’t moving you along your path to avoid sitting still and taking care of yourself, tending to what you need (not want) so that you aren’t craving, but creating.  Organically, with fulfilling results.

The cravings have distracted me from what I’m meant to be doing right now.  By design.  I don’t want to be doing it.

As I pulled into The Calmmune tonight, a Stag stood outside my door.  He bounced over a hedge and stopped, turning to make eye contact.  The fuzz on his antlers blurred their edges, making the bone seem soft, pliable.  His eyes were liquid and calm.  I wondered if he was the same deer that the dudes and I watched walk, then swim, then walk across the lagoon as we drove home last night.  Quite a shortcut to take to Bolinas, but with the lack of road signs and his unique abilities, he can’t be faulted for an evening stroll through calm waters.

We stopped the car to watch his journey in silence as twilight descended.  I sensed his determination, quiet and gentle, and his peace at being alone.  I thought of the Hind and her fawn who darted out in front of our car a few days ago, requiring me to test the brakes.  According to the seat belt marks on the dudes’ shoulders and the lack of what looked to be a certain collision, they work well.

These encounters weren’t the typical, Oh, look! A deer! experiences.  The totem cards beckoned.

Deer has entered your life to help you walk the path of life with full consciousness and awareness, to know that love sometimes requires caring and protection, not only in how we love others, but also in how we love ourselves.  The Stag is linked to the sacredness of the magical forest.  He represents independence, purification and pride.  And the Hind tempts us to release the material trappings of so-called ‘civilization’ to go deep into the forest of magic.  She urges us to explore our own magical and spiritual nature.  To enter the realm of the wild things in the spirit of love and communion.  (Taken in part from Shamanic Journey)

I’ve been trying to commune with man, not nature.  (I refuse to use a magic forest pun here.  Out of respect for you.)  Even though the idea of spending time in a magical forest is thrilling to me, I’ve been choosing to spend my alone-time not wanting to be alone.

It’s been a long time since I’ve made solitude a priority.

All the signs are saying, The time is now.

And so are the Two Witches.

Love yourself,

Cleo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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