I am indebted to Hailey Warchut who contributed material for this
conversation.
Long before she got married, we had
known
each other for well over twenty years. She was someone I could
walk
with, someone with whom I could have those long, meandering
conversations
which were really much more than
small talk
that swapped
opinions
(and
interpretations)
about whatever filled the
morning papers.
They were high quality, deep
inquiries
which always produced valuable insights. There was also a certain
physical attraction which sometimes got in
the way
(at least for me, anyway) but was mostly manageable, kind of like a
gift
in the space which both of us appreciated, yet preferred to just
notice, and leave wrapped up, unopened.
After she got married (to someone else, not me) our
conversations
continued. I
thought
it was admirable that the ground rules and boundaries of her marriage
allowed her to continue her
relationship
with me, a single pre-marriage
guy-friend.
I respected that, predicated as it no doubt was on my total respect for
the sanctity of her marriage. I wouldn't have done anything to
get
in its
way.
It allowed our
friendship
to thrive even as she was married to someone else. Whatever they had,
seemed idyllic, and I wanted her to have that. They eventually had
children,
planned and built their
dreamhome,
and by all
accounts,
became very successful in
business
too.
And then one day he announced he didn't want to be married to her
anymore ... just ... like ... that. She was totally
blindsided,
did not see it coming. He went on to other things, other
ventures, another
relationship,
all of which (like ominous dominoes)
inexorably
failed. He had become King Midas in reverse: everything he
touched after he left her and their
children,
turned into a disaster. And here she and I were again, two single
people
again, two good
friends
again,
talking
about things again.
Even given the
passing
of
time,
I could tell her disappointment and emotional pain persisted. They
remained, more than
clearly
visible, etched into her forehead, the lines raw and deep. She
said,
slowly and pensively, "It's like I was ... robbed.". I
listened
what she was
saying,
then didn't respond for such a long
time
that the
look
on her
face
told me she
thought
I wasn't going to
say
anything at all. Eventually I
said
"No, you weren't robbed.". "No?" she
asked
plaintively. "No" I
said,
"you were rescued!". "Rescued? By whom?" (it
was quite the obvious
question
to
ask
actually). "By
Life itself"
I
said
- then I added (to make it more
getable)
"... maybe ...".
We have it pretty much pegged that a
relationshipbegins
if we put out something into starting it, and that it fails if we
stop
putting out into it. That's really not a bad paradigm. It's certainly
one that fuels the
relationship
and marriage counseling industry. But what if (just what
if ...) a
relationship
starts when it starts, goes on for as long as it goes on, and then ends
when it ends, and has
nothing
whatsoever to do with what or even when we put out into it or
stop
putting out into it? ... maybe ...
Now,
is that
the truth,
or not? It may be. And it may not be. I didn't
intend
to pontificate about
relationships.
What I wanted to do was bring forth a
context
from which she could
look
at hers. And in this
context,
her
relationship
started, it went on for a while, and then it ended. And when it ended,
all the post-morteming, all the Monday morning quarterbacking, all the
armchair psychologyzing were just elaborate
stories.
Now
I assert there's a great deal of
power
in recognizing that, then
simply
setting all those unworkablestories
aside, and then carefully crafting a much more
workablestory
which
trulyserves
you. Mine was that
Life itself
rescued her from imminent disaster.
Look:
I don't
know
if that's
the truth
or not (it may be). What I do
know
is that
looking
from that perspective brings clarity and relief and
peace.
"I was rescued" she mused, like she was savoring its
subtle nuances, "Hmmm ..." she smiled, "by
Life itself,
my new knight in shining armor!". "There you go" I
said.