Dear _____

Dear _____ ,

Oh, _____ , was it the baseball field that did me in? We lay there, pretending to be friendly, curious strangers, looking at the stars. I liked that game. You were less certain. Maybe you sensed a shift, something churning in the mercurial creature beside you in the damp grass. I remember little else of that night but the stars, and the powerful grief that rose up in me. The rushing river was cold, but for some reason, I was not. _____ , you knew—as you always have, since we were young—where to look for me, and thank God for that. Thank God for you, you and the darkest eyes I have ever seen, those unlit windows with countless secrets sleeping behind them. I wept when I received your letter, tears of relief. You know I would like to explain this to the ones who matter, and we know that they do not care to hear my words. I am so sorry for this, for how it affects you. There is something pure and clean here, in the middle of such muddy madness, something as pure and clean as the Maine saltwater we know, as pure as the Earl Grey, as pure as the water you set down for the dogs. We are perfectly imperfect, my soulfriend. I wish, _____ , that I had been the dark-haired one on the camel, a companion on the sand dune. I wish it had been me beside you on the elephant, or drinking tea in the stone cottage, or sitting beside you at the opera. You know what I wish, and why. You have gone far, and I expect you will go farther. I don’t know where you will go, _____ . I don’t know where I will go, either, but we are still here, still breathing, still under the stars instead of above them. With my laughing princesses—the greatest surprise of all. And there is beauty in that. Thank you, _____ . I thank you with my life and my love, for always. I am here. That is forever.

_____ , nothing has been the same since you left, since I returned home changed, blowing magic fish bubbles. Where to begin? Chairs: your kitchen chair (the view of coffee cups and fire escape and the neighbors across the way), your desk chair (your sensual, swiveling view of your kingdom). You nudged me closer to truth than I have ever been before, _____ — so close that I could touch it, did touch it. I know you have said many times that happiness is a choice, _____ . I still maintain that that is your youth talking (oh! yes! I did!). I still say it is not that simple. But what is simple is love, this connection we share. Simple me, simple you. You make me believe in what I do not believe in: unconditional love. _____ , I do not doubt that you are there, always. My bird, your cat—and yet, no danger, none at all. Just peep toes and peep souls. And laughter at the unexpected power of a chance introduction, of a pair of gentle scissors, a bit of small talk diving deep, deep, deep down, below brash currents, to a still place. You are wise, beautiful, magical, _____ . Thank you forever for the hope you do not know that you give me—this hope that perhaps a few human beings can love each other in spite of flaws and fuck-ups and faraway friendship and too much freedom. No matter what, there can be love. I send love to celebrate your new love, your new life. And I am happy.

_____ , a long time ago, I ran. I fled like Cinderella, but more sure-footed. No glass slipper, not even a Birkenstock. You don’t want me to call you jackrabbit. We both know there is little to be said, except what has already been said. I would give anything for a crystal ball, or Cinderella’s fairy godmother. You know this. You know that an 8, tipped over, is infinity. The simplest math of all. _____ , I wish you ease. I wish you warm summers and warm hands and sweetness. I trust you because you dared. You dared tell me what you told no one else. I dared tell you what I dared tell no one else. And we are still standing. If that is not magic in a lifetime, I don’t know what else is, _____ . If my arms were strong enough, I would hold a sideways 8 over my head, outside your window. Instead I place my hand on my heart, and I think about trust, and acceptance. Tears: we are not strangers to them. But mine took me by surprise, a mystery I wrestle with to this day, _____ . I search for quiet places: chapels, old courthouses, a corner of my room, the space beside my dryer. Dizziness instead. Ah, well. Perhaps you teach me that life is not meant for understanding. Perhaps trying too hard to understand leaves us with less space and less soul to simply marvel. Burn brightly, and I will see you from here. Can you see me?

Well, now, look at you. _____ . And to think I was afraid of you, your seeming toughness. When you are a holy boxer, an angel bearing chocolate and 420. When you speak in vavs and bets to my little ones, when you howl at the TV when your team of burly men loses. Your soul speaks to mine “on a rope.” Zap, zap. I disappear at times, _____ , and you are not tough. You worry. You fret. Because this is what one must do, when angels take coffee breaks. You have no idea, _____ , how beautiful you are, how full of compassion you are. I met you again in the middle of your calling. You are waking up into a new life, and I—who was a near-stranger—was sitting by your virtual bedside. And instead of turning away, you climbed out of bed, put on your slippers, made us coffee and played Scrabble. We traded secrets of soul and substance, and though I perplex you (and hurt you—I am sorry) with my slippery ways, you are there, always there. How does one thank a holy boxer? I do not know. Vav, I say. Vav. You make me believe in being called, in vocation, in invocation. I yearn for what you have, _____ , for the path you are following, for the bravery you show me daily. Vav. Vav. Vav. I believe in the power of the vav, and in laughter. The angels, my dear, covet your laughter. God recognizes your laughter as prayer. And so do I.

Oh! A tangle of bags, dogs, leashes, emotion. I am sorry I reacted so strongly the other day, _____ . I thought I would be brave enough. I thought I would be strong enough. I was not quite there yet. I heard _____ and _____ in your voice, those voices, and something crystalline in me shattered. And here I thought I’d moved all the breakables, given them all away, sold them at a tag sale. You are fighting your own battle (“why not ignite the inevitable?”) and I burst into flames. But you are so good. I see now why you race to outpace yourself, break away from your own pack of demons. I see why you let your smile do the hard work, so your eyes can rest. You need that rest. So much pain hidden away there—I understand this—my smile has far too much mileage on it as well. I don’t know whether to go up or down from here. The mine is dangerous indeed, and these are some weary canaries cupped in our sturdy, practical hands. Bravery, endurance—maybe Rumi has the answers? Read on, in that resonant voice. Read on, write on. We find our answers that way, don’t we?

And _____ and _____ and _____ , I have so much more to say. But my job search continues today, so this letter must come to an end, for now. Just know that I love you. And I learn from you. And I’m sorry I don’t have all the answers. I never will. But you teach me so beautifully, so gently, that you give me hope. Yes. Hope.

Love,
Jenn