Leave Room for the Miracles--Part Two

YaYa: Buddy, will you tell my blog readers what you thought when you received the condolence email from me?

Buddy: The day I read your note, I immediately exhaled and thought: “There you are! Where have you been? What took you so long?” But I thought the brief response I composed and sent back was perfectly generic and non-commital. (Laugh)

YaYa: We probably should give some background on our unusual friendship. Do you want to start?

Buddy: We became friends, almost thirty years ago, when we were in our mid-twenties. We bonded quickly and intensely.

YaYa: We shared an affinity for cooking together, eating, dancing, and the outdoors. Buddy had a motor cycle then (and now) and, oh, how I loved riding on the back of that bike. What a liberating feeling!

Buddy: But our burgeoning love did not have a chance to fully flourish. My circumstances…it was an inopportune time…

YaYa: We could not fully commit to each other. The relationship, after a lovely and soulful six months, ended swiftly…and painfully.

Buddy: Timed passed. We did not hear a word from each other for six years, but I thought about you more than you'll ever know.

YaYa: And then…and on this part we are fuzzy …we ran into each other but we don’t agree on the details. My friend Gus seems to remember that one evening he and I were at the movie theatre and saw  Buddy there.

Buddy: I don’t recall that. But here is what I remember of that time: My son was 4 years old and my former wife had recently told me she was leaving the marriage. The legal process of my divorce went relatively smoothly. What it did to me on the inside is another story.

The gavel came down on my marriage one spring afternoon after our being in court for less than an hour. In a coma like fashion, I walked out of the court house to begin the ritual of going through pictures, documents, etc. It was during that time, once again, that visions of YaYa came to me stronger than ever.

YaYa: When we saw each other, my heart went out to you. You were a mess. But in the new year, I would be leaving for California, so I knew we had to maintain a strictly platonic friendship. I tried  to get you interested in one of my sister’s friends. How insensitive of me. I had no idea what kind of pain you were in then. Now, after my divorce fiasco, I understand how very raw you were at the time.

Buddy: It is amazing to reconnect after all these years. I had not seen you since the spring of 1986 when I helped you pack your belongings to move.

YaYa: The irony of it all was not lost on either one of us back then.

Buddy: We kept in touch, periodically, for the next four years.

YaYa: I finished grad school in June of 1990, and in the fall, Buddy and I started making plans to see each other again. But then I got cold feet. I had just started a new career, teaching in a college setting.

I knew if I saw Buddy again… let’s just say… I did not wanted to be tempted to return to New Jersey. Buddy was running his Dad’s business, so I couldn’t imagine that he would move to California; and a bi-coastal relationship, at the time, was unfathomable. Better leave well enough alone. So we severed our ties again. Always, a clean cut.

Buddy: So we had not talked or written to each other since the end of 1990.

YaYa: That’s right. And I met Chaz six months later and married him two years after that. You and I have not been in touch for 18 years.

Buddy: Yup. I had no idea you had married, until I saw that hyphenated name. And then I thought: “This beautiful woman for whom I have kept my heart open all these years just couldn't be married.”

How long did it take for you to tell me you were divorced?

YaYa: I waited for a little over two weeks. I had to think. Truthfully, I did not expect to hear from you. I was sure you were remarried with a slew of children. But when you responded, I knew if I walked through the door that you had just flung open, this would be our opportuned time.







Starting this Monday, March 2, My Seat on the Beach will be published on Mondays.

Leave Room for the Miracles--Part One

For weeks, I have been trying to decide how to introduce you to Buddy, the man with whom I share my heart. After reading last week's blog, one of my closest girlfriends wrote: "Not only has Buddy declared his devotion to you in several blog comment sections, but the man can write!"

'Tis true! He writes tender, touching letters. Adoring, alluring letters. A throw back to when people slowed down and synched their pace in order to create the nesting place that would contain their love. A time when lovers took the space to bask in each other's affection, linger in one another's arms, and swim together in bliss.

And when they were apart? Love letters straight from the heart. Magnificent, moving words of love and devotion bridged the gap.

When I mentioned my fondness for Buddy's way with words to a sister friend from a weekly writing group, she suggested that Buddy and I write a series of blog entries together. This struck us as a rather intimate way to share with you our story of rekindled love and recent wedding engagement. Herein the story that is still in creation.

(The words in italics are Buddy's)

The drive back from Florida to New Jersey this past July seemed longer than any other. I had made this trip innumerable times, visiting my parents who had retired to Fort Myer's ten years earlier. But this journey was different. My Dad had just passed away, leaving me 1,500 miles to reflect upon my life and how long would it last, I was 57 years old, my father had been 86. What had I done with my life and most importantly, how would I live the rest of it?

I suppose it's not all that uncommon for a son to think about such things, but these thoughts were coming to the surface of my mind just as quickly as the white lines were approaching then disappearing under my car as I drove 80 mph up Interstate 95.  


As much as I wanted to shake them off, trying to distract myself by counting the carcasses of road kill on the highway, the thoughts kept flying back...me, raising my son as a single parent; me taking over my father's turf products business; me, life of the party; me, lonely. 


By the time I arrived home and slunk into the seat in front of  my computer, I had just enough energy to turn it on. I've got mail. Junk email, some business mail, and letters of sympathy from people who had read my father's obituary in the local county paper. 


One email leapt out of the monitor like a run-away train, tore through my chest, and lodged itself in my heart. "Could it be?" I asked as I slumped back into the chair. I sat there motionless for about a week (or so it seemed). What I remember and will never forget is how my eyes swelled and teared each time I leaned forward and peered at her name. Yes, it was surely her, the forever love of my life, I had received an email from the woman I had loved for three decades and had not heard from in 18 years. 


My vision blurred. I could not clear it. What was this...an extra surname attached to hers? What is that other last name? That doesn't belong there!!! Make it go away, pleeeeeease make it go away. Could it be? Could my heart and soul be....MARRIED????? 


Alas, there it was, the signature appearing in billboard size letters:Sincerely,  YaYa Bowmann-Kinsley.


(YaYa's account.)

Somethings cannot be explained and this is one: I had known, for some time, that I would reconnect with Buddy by reading his father's obituary in the newspaper. Buddy is a "junior" so I figured I would recognize the name. I don't know how long I had possessed this "understanding."

Actually this is not such a far fetched idea, connecting with old friends at times of death. I am the daughter of a funeral director and I lived over a funeral home for eight years of my life. I saw these reunions happen all the time.

And, as a child,  I regularly helped my Dad write obituaries. When I was hired as a reporter on the county newspaper,  many years later, my first job was "obituary writer." I tell you this to make the point: Its not out-of-the norm that I would gravitate toward reading obituaries. Some years back, I had started reading the on-line obits from my hometown  paper. I read them daily...religiously. I told myself reading the obituaries provided a sensible way to strike up a conversation when I talked to my parents in New Jersey on the week-ends. I can not tell you how long I had been doing this, nor how long I knew Buddy and I would discover the whereabouts of each other through this ritual.

One morning, after going through my daily paces (feed the cats, prepare the coffee, light the candle and incense) I sat down to read the obituaries. There I saw the name that would extend the bridge to the man who had loved me the fullest--ever--in my life.

I sent a condolence email to the funeral home in Fort Myer's, addressed to Buddy. I signed it: Sincerely, YaYa Bowmann-Kinsley. I  used my married name, though my long, drawn-out divorce had been finalized five months earlier--on Valentine's Day!!! Somehow, using the married name seemed...safer.

It was almost a month before I heard from Buddy. In the interim, his nephew, Daniel, 25, had passed after suffering with liver cancer for six years. His father and his nephew-both within a month. My heart telegraphed a message to his: "How are you coping, dear one? I hold you in light and love."

Several days later, I heard from Buddy in a very brief email:

"Oh my God....Karen ? How
thoughtful. How are you ? By
your name, I'm guessing I
missed my chance, and you got
married. Let's keep in touch.
Buddy"


Next Week : Leave Room for the Miracles--Part II


Remember, beginning in March, My Seat on the Beach will be published on Mondays.

I'm Giving All My Candy to Buddy!*

 


I Am Away 


for 


Valentine's Day!



 Details next week.




 Who is Buddy? See the comment sections of the following My Seat on the Beach blogs for an introduction (scroll down to Buddy's name):

1. Here is Your First Blog Quiz of the Fall 2008 Semester--Friday, August 29
2. Counting My Blessings--Friday, November 21
3. Advent Star--Friday, December 5
4. The Message in the Bottle--Friday, December 12
5. Take the Time to Write--Friday, January 9



(To find the aforementioned blogs, just scroll down to the bottom of this page. You will see a left-hand column with the months listed. Click on the corresponding months to find the blog pieces.)




 Note Bene: Starting the first Monday of March, the My Seat on the Beach Blog will be published on Mondays.

Moving to the Beat of a Different Drummer

"If a man loses pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured, or far away. " --Henry David Thoreau

 Or...perhaps she has fibromyalgia and just can't move as quickly as everyone else.

Perhaps she aches so much that on some days she can't move at all.

Perhaps she is so fatigued that she can't even hear the music.

Or...perhaps her fibro fog is so thick she can't  distinguish the beat.


We fibromyalgia sufferers are not lazy, we are not party-poopers, we are not hypochondriacs.

We are brave people who are dealing with a poorly understood illness.

We are trying to live our lives as fully as possible on a limited amount of energy per day.

Sometimes it really helps when our companions are willing to slow down and move to the beat of our drummer.