There is a chasm where the echoes of you resonate
Memories vibrate, resounding up through the depths
Humming, strumming my heart
Orchestrating haunting internal melodies
Sentimental serenades bereft of lyrics
Frequently, the songs are as tender as a lullaby
Tranquil, faint, soothing as a purr
Intimate whispers shadow my perceptions
A fleeting smile or tear offers a glimpse into the hymns
From time to time, the reverberations are flagrant, flamboyant
Visceral concertos of cacophony
The interludes intrude and occlude
Boisterous crescendos, their clamors are deafening
Outwardly silent, inwardly surging, I await their conclusion
Most often, the intrinsic music is my resident accompaniment
Instrumental ballads proclaiming, portraying a bygone life
An opus of a lover pining for an encore
The unfinished symphony plays on beyond the curtain call
I am a woman of many faces:
My roles define the façade you see
I conform to your reality
Never unveiling my complete identity
I parcel out my character
Offering tidbits to delight, entice
The designated consumer
Your view is obscured
Tainted, tinted, rendered incomplete
By your imagined image
Will you dare — Do you care
To shine a light on my persona
Shapeshifting like a kaleidoscope
A psychedelic palette freckled with crystal and coal
Charming and disturbing
My colors twist and turn
Once there was one who embraced my entirety
Who gazed pierced my mosaic individuality
And did not turn away
Iridescent, my soul shone for him
Enraptured, my soul captivated him
Unfiltered, I was known
What is the face you perceive
Will you — Can you — comprehend my totality
Or are you limited by necessity
Do you see
Tucked in the upper right corner of my garage rafters lies a box containing an enormous vase. It has earned that spot because it is simply too large for any indoor closet. Scarlet and urn-shaped (an omen, perhaps?) it was a gift from my late husband on a bygone Valentine’s Day. He promised to fill it with roses each year after that. He made it to three.
Guiding like a beacon, it is the first thing I notice when pulling into my home. Sometimes, all I observe is the tattered, dusty edges of the box — how empty that picture of the crimson glass vessel appears. Most of the time, however, I recognize it as it truly is: A loving cup brimming with memories. It all depends on my point of view.
Now here I am, a dozen Valentines since my husband’s passing, without a holiday mandated significant other. Lavish bouquets will not be exhibited on my Facebook feed. No one is sending me sweet love notes this year.
But here’s the kicker — I am teeming with loves just as significant, if not more so, than the adoration of a spouse or partner. And, I bet, my fellow non-plus-oners, you are, too. You just have to recognize them and, most importantly, resolve to take heed of their beauty.
“Only in the eyes of love can you find infinity“ -Sorin Cerin
The Greeks defined eight types of love. Why eight? I’d like to think it’s because eight is the number of infinity. Universal love can’t be comprehended in a single construct.
My favorite synopsis of this Grecian octet is a blog post on the FTD website. I know, cheesy, but good content is good content. Plus, this is a Valentine’s piece, so what the heck.
Here they are, with a little commentary thrown in:
Philia: Brotherly Love. Kindred Spirits. The kind of person who understands that pineapple has no business being anywhere near a pizza, but completely understands why ketchup on tacos is the bomb.
“To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” -Audrey Hepburn
The Greeks never intended for these loves to be mutually exclusive. Like features in a luxurious landscape, they are to be planted together; complementing and highlighting what is sown alongside.
Love is never monochromatic. It can be dappled with a few complementary hues or bursting with psychedelic shades. Your preferences, your environment, help to select the flora.
So Cupid be damned! This Valentine’s I am going to shift my focus to the loves that presently adorn my life, instead of longing for those of seasons past. Like any landscape artist, I am working with the abundance of botanicals presented to me. Hopefully, you find it as breathtaking as I do.
But first, the fertilizer
Ever since my husband’s original cancer diagnosis (on the eve of 9/11 — another omen), one could say my life has been a reoccurring shit show. An endless carnival of freak occurrences and rarities that would amaze even Ripley.
Contrary to the old adage, my shit does stink. Big chunks of putrid stank bobbing in a viscous cesspool. That aroma, believe it or not, is peculiarly intoxicating and addictive. The compulsion to anoint oneself with sorrow’s perfume overwhelming.
But, to my surprise, it is within these piles that my loves have sprouted. Instead of prompting repulsion, these predicaments have fertilized my blessings. They laid the groundwork for my bountiful garden.
Mia famiglia: Storge-Agape-Philia
I used to take for granted my strong, extended family. I’m sure it’s partly due to my Italian heritage, but, to me, it was a given that everyone had one. Only recently, have I recognized my privilege.
My family is voracious in their appetite to make it all better and I admit, I lap up every morsel of their compassion. There is my mother, who bursts in with a month’s worth of homemade ragu and biscotti; her arms laden with bags of herbals and vitamins. Whether the ailment is physical or emotional, she has a supplement for it.
Her maternal might set to 11, my mother will nestle in for days or sometimes weeks to tend to her firstborn. Three square meals a day (always organic) her manna from heaven.
My father, in turn, will drive to the ends of the earth — and Costco — to gather provisions. Tucked within his bags of supplies will invariably be a surprise luxury item (jumbo shrimp, baby lamb chops, juicy rib-eyes) that he and I both adore. It’s a wink and a silent, “I’ve got you covered, honey,” that rings loud and clear in my heart.
Each of my siblings is steadfast as a succulent. A variegated array of devotion, their loyalty never waivers.
Then there is my cousin, who has made it his mission to make me feel attractive even though lately I feel about as appealing as a corpse lily. I know he is at the ready to beat down any dude he feels has done me wrong.
Treasured old friends: Philia-Pragma-Storge
Fortune smiled upon me when it granted me a fellowship of life-long friends. Most budded in elementary school with one germinating in our infancy. Beloved companions for 50 years, they are my roots. We have grown, matured, and endured alongside each other like a redwood forest.
We have experienced the trials and joys of all that life has to offer from youthful shenanigans to the frolics of middle age. Boyfriends, careers, marriages, and births have been our summer solstice. The biting frost of illness and death’s devastation our frigid winters. We have a symbiotic history that grounds and nourishes us. They know and cherish me to my core.
The Posse: Philia-Philautia-Agape
My posse, along with their spouses and children, is my trellis — my backbone. Interwoven with strength and radiance, this sisterhood+ rallies like a fire brigade as soon as a distress call pings our group text. Ever ready for the rescue, they’ve arrived within minutes whenever I needed a lift to an appointment, a toilet unclogged, or gallons of libations to drown my sorrows.
These families have cheered on my children, coaching and stepping in as surrogate parents when my capacity was waning. Even more glorious, they have always included me in their social gatherings. I’m not weeded out as the solo attendee or tolerated as the pity invite. Within this lattice, I am welcomed.
No landscape is complete without a bit of foliage providing an anchor or a touch of flourish. There is the former coworker who has become a dear companion and priceless dispenser of wisdom, the countless clients who unknowingly offered inspiration when I was desperate for validation, and, of course, my two sons who supply me with abounding purpose, pride, and hope.
“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.” –Henri Matisse
I’ll admit, I still pine for a season of roses. It’s easier to be content with discontent. When the next storm arrives, I have no doubt I’ll find myself, once again, slathering sadness like a warm blanket.
But when that happens, I am equally assured that one of my loves will sprout anew and tenderly wipe the tears from my eyes. My focus cleared, I’ll soon notice the grandeur blossoming around me.
So what is blooming in your garden? Which of the eight loves decorate your landscape? Are you dazzled by their brilliance? Or are you struggling to see splendor amidst some desolation? Are you basking in a verdant meadow or shriveling in a barren desert?
Contrary to popular belief, sex is the least of it.
Photo by Olya Kobruseva from Pexels
When I was newly widowed, I became a fraction of my former self. Much like an antique book whose binding has deteriorated, I felt chapters of my life floating away. The stitching slowly coming apart leaving only the cover of a story that no longer existed. I was unraveling and insecure, wanting my support to reappear and make me whole once again. I was incomplete.
I had lost my intimacy.
Psychcentral defines intimacy as “deeply knowing another person and feeling deeply known.” It’s the understanding of what makes someone else tick. Complete comprehension of mind, body, and soul, it’s the comfort of someone profoundly perceiving and loving you daily. One of the most basic of all human cravings and, more often than not, the one most difficult to achieve.
Love, and intimacy, is a many splendored thing
Many would define intimacy as having sex. So much so, it has become a euphemism for the act itself. Stating “We’ve been intimate,” is a much more genteel way of stating “We banged each other’s brains out.” But there is a world of difference between carnal lust and sexual intimacy. One is purely physical, often forgotten over time. The other is an unadulterated connection that imprints and deepens the relationship.
Clinical psychologist, Margarita Tartakovsky, M.S., describes five types of intimacy other than sex. All need to be nourished to strengthen a healthy relationship, both in the bedroom and out.
Emotional Intimacy: Perhaps the most vital, this form of intimacy requires constant effort. It is a conscious decision to communicate and be vulnerable — share your pains and joys. Be curious, respectful, and supportive of what delights or grieves your partner. Create a safe space to accept and trust yourself — to trust each other.
Physical Intimacy: Not the same as sex, physical intimacy is affection through touch. Holding hands, a kiss goodbye in the morning, cuddling on the couch are all reminders of the bond you two share. It’s a day-to-day affirmation. This form of intimacy can also include massages or dancing. Is there anything more romantic than a slow dance to a favorite song?
Intellectual Intimacy: Mutual values, respect of another’s viewpoint, and common interests are hallmarks of intellectual intimacy. Your partner’s opinion matters, even if it differs from your own. You’re comfortable alone together. It can be as simple as a love of sports, board games, or music genres. The adage “opposites attract” may work for some, but too much opposition will only lead to aversion.
Experiential Intimacy: Shared memories are the outcome of experiential intimacy. Holiday traditions, date nights, even family mishaps fall into this category. Watching a movie or taking a class together also strengthens the attachments formed with this type of intimacy. These events can be relived over and over again through pictures, a song, or an inside joke. They tattoo your heart and are uniquely yours.
Spiritual Intimacy: This type of intimacy is not limited to a common understanding in a higher power, but in the sharing of awe-inspiring moments. This could be a religious service, a walk at sunset, or the birth of a child. It is the mutual participation in something that touches your soul.
Baby take the time, do it right — SOS Band
As you might surmise, true intimacy takes time. Far deeper than the initial seed of infatuation, it needs to be cultivated and nourished. Not just two halves creating a whole, it’s the 100% intertwining of goals, vulnerability, and — yes — passions. It is the grafting together of two personas to form a distinct, more resilient, creation. Take it from someone who’s experienced the gratification of such a relationship — and hopes to, perhaps, once again — it is well worth the effort.
How my father went to Google and beyond to prove it to me
I am a grown woman in my fifties, with adult children of my own. Yet, my father continues to remind me that I will always be his little girl.
Our family compass
Once upon a time, my father knew L.A. streets like an astronomer knows the night sky. He could navigate through all areas of the county using only a few landmarks and cardinal directions. Heeding the time of day and traffic patterns, he was a virtuoso at charting the fastest route. His advice was invariably sought whenever a family member was about to venture into unfamiliar surroundings.
When I first received my driver’s license, my father taught me how to decipher the Los Angeles Thomas Guide — a thick, spiral-bound directory containing maps of every street, avenue, and freeway. Like a master cartographer, he demonstrated how the notes in the margins interlinked to other pages of crisscrossed roads and highways. I learned how these elaborate mazes could be chained together to plot a course anywhere in Los Angeles. The rite of passage complete, I was now a fellow keeper of the codes. I knew I could never be lost.
Now, over 30 years later, the Thomas Guide has been replaced by GPS systems much like Google has eclipsed the Encyclopedia Britannica. It is a relic of a bygone era when I relied solely upon my father’s direction. Its treasure map guidance unknown to a generation instructed by Siri.
Technology is my father’s strange new world. His was the generation of secretaries and dictation. Crafting a letter or researching a topic were skills done for him, not by him. He claims he is too old to learn new tricks and has been reluctant to communicate electronically. Still, my brother purchased him a refurbished laptop and my father keeps himself busy playing Backgammon and Hearts — not realizing he could easily unlock the secrets of his digital directory.
Or so I thought.
One giant leap
I had recently had surgery on my Achilles tendon and required to see the orthopedic surgeon for a follow up every two weeks. My right leg in a cast, I was not able to drive myself to these appointments. Ever my hero/protector, my father would make the 25-minute drive to pick me up, double back past his house, and drive me to my doctor’s appointment. A lunch date traditionally followed. We would cruise up, down, and around Van Nuys Boulevard looking for a restaurant to catch our eye and lure us in.
On one such outing, my dad handed me a recycled envelope as I settled into his car. Jotted in and around the To and Return addresses was a list of eateries sorted by cuisine. I immediately recognized the script of my father’s shaky hand. Burgers, Pizza, Mexican, and Deli each headed a column of restaurants and their addresses. “Take your pick,” my father said as he settled into the driver’s seat.
“How did you come up with this list?” I asked him.
“I figured it out,” was his cryptic reply.
As I perused the various eateries, I realized my father must have done multiple Google searches to garner such information. Soon, I was swept to the brink of tears by the sweet gesture. Wanting only to make me feel better, he overrode his fear and hesitation to compile the list. The strength of his paternal drive propelling him through the alien electronic nebula.
We were running early, so we decided to scout out the locations on the envelope before heading to the appointment. Like eager sightseers, my father and I scrutinized each locale as we drifted slowly down the boulevard. The two of us were caught up in the adventure and exhilarated by the quest. It wasn’t a journey to be rushed, much to the dismay of our fellow road travelers. We eventually settled on a tiny corner taqueria.
Age of enlightenment
We returned later and enjoyed a meal of spicy shrimp tacos and chicken tostadas. My father charmed the staff with his inquisitive nature and occasional dad jokes.
Just as when I was a young girl and fell off my bike, he doted on me with tenderness and concern — bringing me my lunch and refilling my drink. My age — his age — was irrelevant. I was, and will always be, a precious star in his galaxy.
Responses from the rest of our sextet came almost immediately:
OMG Noooo! Wait, what? What happened? I’m so sorry!
This was out the blue for them. Not entirely unexpected on my part.
Consolation calls came next. My attorney friend had the swiftest speed dial. Swamped with work — her job might kill her before the viral load ever reaches her house — she made the time for a consoling chat. The first, “Take care. I love you, my friend,” of the day.
Then Karen called. “Screw the quarantine!” she proclaimed. “Meet me on your patio in 20 minutes. I’m bringing supplies.” I knew alcohol and junk food were en route.
Without delay, I prepared for our safely distanced playdate. Chairs were positioned six feet apart. (Yes, I measured — fearful that my tears would cause me to under calculate the state-mandated range.) Side tables stacked with paper plates, napkins, disinfectant wipes, and a vitally important wine glass were placed by each. I unlocked the gate and impatiently waited.
Karen is a former gymnast — current personal trainer to an elite LA clientele. She’s Mighty Mouse in both stature and personality. “Here she comes to save the day!” echoed in my head as I anticipated her arrival. A huge plant with lavender spires and bronzed, spring-loaded legs soon bounded around the corner. Karen placed the lumbering foliage on my garden table and her sunny face was revealed. “I’ve got no idea what the hell this is, but it looked cheery,” she explained. “Sit tight. I’ll be back with the rest.”
Bags and bags of provisions were carted in: Prosecco, Fritos, Cheetos, gummy bears, red wine, chocolates and a slab of cake slathered in fudge. A perfect smorgasbord for a dejected spirit. We started with the sparkling wine. I threw in some fresh orange juice to “keep things healthy.” The salty snacks were our main course. We determined the wine and chocolate should be reserved for dessert.
My sorrows spilled out as the libations and carbs flowed in. We went over the particulars of the breakup; surveyed the peaks and valleys of my year-long relationship. I catalogued his shortcomings and acknowledged mine. Karen listened as I reminisced over the days of splendor, contemplating if settling was better than life without a plus one. She commiserated over each detail, seasoning my emotional stew with alternating “That bastard!” and “He treated you well.”
I sniffled and cried. Got indignant and fumed. Laughed at both his expense and mine. The Prosecco was soon depleted. The vino was uncorked.
We dove into the final course of our therapeutic feast. Gooey frosting was the icing on the cake for our forlorn conclusion: Imperfect love can’t last forever.
As she began to leave, Karen lamented she couldn’t reach out and hug me. She didn’t comprehend the potency of her visit. Effervescent bubbles were the tender kisses of friendship. Decadent chocolate was the embrace that soothed my broken heart. She braved a pandemic to let me know I was going to be ok — to remind me I was still loved.
I met my husband at 16. We were married when I was 25. I was widowed three days before my 44th birthday.
Our two sons were in their early teens when we lost their father. He had been ill for quite some time, but the way he eventually passed away was sudden and traumatic. PTSD complicated our grief. I threw myself into tending to my boys, work and volunteering. Once they graduated, I created a this blog to finally process the sadness I had suppressed for years. My mind was too preoccupied and my spirit too full of heartache to allow time for dating.
And so, I waited nearly a decade to reenter the dating world. If you do the math, this seemed to be a pattern with me. What can I say? I needed to be REALLY sure before I truly committed.
Single and out of date
My husband was my first kiss, my first love, my first everything. My friend used to tease me that I had the dating skills of an adolescent: awkward, unsure and pretty much clueless. I had no playbook – no references to what I liked or disliked in a relationship. Flirtation was a skill that had dissipated long ago. Now in my fifties, I was about to enter foreign territory without comprehending the language or rules of the domain.
Back in high school, my biggest concerns were whether my side ponytail was attractively askew and the horror of my butt cheeks protruding beneath my Dolfin shorts. I could never have fathomed that a bodacious bootie would be considered alluring in the 21st century. I only wish a muffin top wasn’t an unwelcome collaborator in my middle-aged physique.
Looking for a Match made in OKCupid & other digital heavens
I had been pondering dating for a couple years before I resolved to be proactive. It was my hope that someone in my circle of friends would introduce me to a “nice guy” they knew. He would be properly vetted as engaging, financially secure and safe. There was one enormous snag in this scenario: Most of my friends were married. I was the only unattached mare in the posse. No stallions for miles.
And so, I reluctantly thrust myself into the realm of online dating. I honed my relationship seeking resume (aka profile) to the best of my novice ability. Dating Objectives, Activities & Interests and Bio were all crafted with a touch of wit and hidden desperation. Previous Experience was glaringly absent. I appraised pictures of myself until I found the few that I hoped portrayed subtle sexiness while concealing my double chin. Filled with apprehension, I shuddered as I posted it.
The responses began flooding in almost immediately. This is not to say I’m any more eye-catching than the previous gal to swipe across their screen – far from it. But if you’re female, new on the dating auction block and assumedly breathing, you’re a hot commodity.
Never in my wildest imagination could I have ever envisioned the types of characters soon parading through my account. There was an inordinate amount of men donning bizarre hairstyles including mullets and a Flock of Seagulls triple mohawk. I’d somewhat expected the gentlemen who obviously were lying about their age, but many were clearly decrepit. One even used a photo of himself in a hospital bed as his profile pic. Another chap sported a neck brace and still another proudly presented only his elbow scab. WTF? Did was he seeking someone to kiss his boo boo?
Call me sheltered, but I had never been propositioned to join a threesome, let alone on a daily basis. The erotic mischief requested included a “submissive guy seeking his dominant queen” who pledged to be castrated for his future mistress. There was the married fella searching for an addition to his polyamorous relationship. Only semi-good-looking gals need to respond as his wife “was quite homely” and abundantly jealous.
Then there were the usernames: AwesummaCumLaude, Eatyourkitty and Chocolate Reggie whose self-summary proclaimed, “Just a funny man with a big dick and full wallet,” were a few highlights of this brigade.
I came to the realization that I needed to apply some filters to sift through the invitations infiltrating my inbox and “likes” tallies. There were the simple sorts regarding age, height and marital status. Long distance romancers and professed CIA operatives were weeded out. Then there was the Not a Chance in Hells:
Dudes who posted more pictures of possessions – boats, motorcycles, guns, etc. than themselves. Boys bragging about their toys repelled my interest.
Grand displays of hunting and gathering prowess. Apparently, a lot of women are enticed by all sorts of aquatic life dangling from hooks. I had better fish to fry.
Costumes of any kind. Save your pirate garb for Halloween.
The inability to compose a simple sentence. I was a sucker for well-written note demonstrating they had actually read my profile. Terse missives such as “Hey Baby,” “Yummy,” and “Mmmm,” did not set this essayist’s heart aflutter.
A sprawling list of dislikes. Profiles spewing negativity and demands of “no drama” signaled someone who was seeking compliance, not a relationship.
Getting with the dating program
The laws of attraction are a bit cockeyed in the virtual world. You are introduced as the result of a succinct CV processed through an arbitrary algorithm. Physical mannerisms, nonverbal cues or pheromones are not in play just yet. Charm and other nuances are compressed like dough through a pasta machine, then transmitted via an LED display. This two-dimensional showmanship was superficial at its best. Counterfeit at its worst. It took me a while to acclimate and learn how to decipher these exhibitions. I’m not sure if I ever actually did.
With the simple click of a button, your interest in someone is proclaimed to the technological universe. Hopefully, they “wink” or like you back and the initial courtship begins. Last time I was in the dating arena, you danced with one partner at a time. When utilizing an app, one engages multiple prospective mates simultaneously. No more waiting to get home to check the answering machine. Messages appeared at all hours of the day and night. On some days, the frequent alerts buzzed my phone like a bumble bee stuck in a window shade. The cacophony of it all left me woozy. I soon became addicted to the rush of electronic seduction. On other days – many many days – the notifications fell silent. I checked and rechecked my phone, desperately seeking my fix.
“All that is gold does not glitter” – Tolkien
During this period, I relied heavily upon a close single friend for guidance. She was my Obi Wan – gifted in the ways of dating and an excellent counselor. Her eager apprentice, I regularly divulged the ups and downs of this unfamiliar terrain. We regaled each other with tales of fleeting passion, being ghosted and assorted profile oddities.
She recognized my dating immaturity, gradually teaching me to trust my own instincts and realize my self-worth. Each time I would come to her sorrowful from a rejection or breakup, she would always bestow the same advice, “I’m so sorry you’re in pain, but every relationship provides a valuable lesson. Whether it identified a trait in a man you can’t abide or gained an awareness of what brings you happiness, you have gleaned an insight into what you want out of a relationship.” Her mentorship proved invaluable.
This is not meant to be a manifesto railing about the perils of online dating. I know quite a few people who have successfully found their soulmates and/or future spouse. Personally, I frequently connected with men I found attractive, had a decently active dating life and various brief relationships. Did I find the next love of my life? That story is yet to be told…