During this time period, where I had all my hopes pinned on John, there have been a few other fellows who have tried to throw their hat in the ring.  They are nice guys.  One keeps calling and wants to take me out to dinner and has enthusiastically invited my kids.  I saw him recently, when Jen and Will were in tow, and he said, “Hey, kids!  How are you?  What’s new?”  He tries.  He might want to try to remember their names next time.  He’s funny, creative and outdoorsy.

Another has started writing letters.  He is another long distance fellow.  The red flags are obvious.  I’m not cut out for the long distance stuff.  This fellow is sensitive, thoughtful, smart, introspective, interesting and asks me about myself and my life.  He doesn’t shy away from talking about kids and shares his own experiences with raising kids.  We write back and forth without the pressure of worrying about whether we are liked by the other, or not.  That really frees a person up to write whatever they feel or think.

I met another fellow through work.  We have similar creative interests, speak the same language about work related stuff and communicate very easily.  I remember in one of those conversations, he got sidetracked and asked me about how or when I decided to leave Mark.  I felt the strangest sensation when he asked the question.  I got the impression that when he asked, he really wanted to hear my answer.  He wasn’t just making conversation.  I think that must be what it feels like when someone really listens to you.

And the other fellow is someone I’ve known for awhile.  We swap stories about kids, skiing, work and life.  He’s a pleasant fellow - sensitive, thoughtful, considerate, funny, smart.  We have a lot of things in common.

And in all these cases, I’m not the slightest bit interested.  I wasn’t looking when John came along, and I’m not looking now.  It reminds me too much of shopping.  I hate shopping.  When I shop, I go by a list, I don’t browse.  When I find the thing on my list, I buy it.  I don’t compare price.  I’ve already spent the time, in advance, figuring out what I want.  I’m not going to be swayed by slicker packaging, availability or price.  If Ian ever stops roasting his fabulous Snowy Mountain Coffee Beans I’ll be screwed.  I’ll quit drinking coffee before I make the quick switch to something else.  Then I’ll hope to wander into another coffee shop someday, and taste something that will be worth switching to.

…

I was late sending off a couple letters to the fellow that likes to write long letters.  I got this panicky letter from him where he asked if everything was all right.  Had he said something to offend me?  Was he getting too personal?  And then the fellow that shares stories about kids and skiing got a little miffed when I didn’t immediately respond to one of his emails.  In both cases, I found myself thinking, “Hey, what’s with the pressure?  I’m swamped with raising and home schooling two kids, trying to write, trying to unclog drains, taking kids skiing, cooking dinner and deciding on a dog.  I can’t be expected to drop everything to fill your holes.”  And then…   the 2×4 to the forehead.  That’s exactly how John must have felt every time I sent him an email that said, “Where are you?”

The universe has an interesting sense of humor.

The good, with John, included that delicious ping sound the computer makes when I get a new email.  Those emails used to come from long-distance, John.  I’d hear that ping, look at the bottom of the screen, and that cute little envelope would be smiling up at me.  I would drop everything and check my inbox.  I miss anticipating hearing from him.  I miss the plans that I’d made for future visits.  I miss the sweetness of that fantasy of a life with John.  It’s funny how the missing overshadows the reality.  The reality is that I had plans.  He didn’t.

I’d been thinking a lot about how it is that we end up staying in unhealthy relationships.  Before I even figured out the roof analogy, I was wondering what it was that keeps us in something that ultimately makes us miserable.  Is there something in our wiring that makes us gloss over the negative and focus on the positive?  What if there is a lot more negative than positive?  Is it the same thing that makes women forget the rigors of labor and delivery.  If our brains didn’t have the capacity to stifle the negative, the world would be populated with only children, and there’d be no such thing as marriage.  We’d all bale out of relationships at the first sign of hurt feelings, thereby making it impossible to stick it out long enough to make it to the altar.

I’ve been following Seth Godin’s Blog.  He talks a lot about the lizard brain and fear and resistance and how those things relate to productivity.  I’m intrigued by the concept that what holds us back is basically biological.  We don’t wake up every morning and say to ourselves, “I’m not going to take risks.  I’m not going to jay-walk.  I’m not going to talk to that cute guy at work.  I’m going to blend in and not make a fool of myself.”  There is an unseen force in our brain that controls all those choices.

I assumed, then, that the lizard brain played a part in relationships.   And it does.  The lizard brain is consumed with the desire to reproduce and the avoidance of fear.  Picture this little lizard holding a large blueprint that maps out everything that happened to you up to the age of six.  The lizard compares any new situation to this blueprint, and then determines your knee-jerk reaction.  If you feared being left as a child, you go out of your way, now, to make sure you will never be left again.  If you craved attention as a child, your lizard fears the absence of attention, and will make sure to put you in situations where you get lots of attention.  In my case, when getting my feelings hurt, or when I feel rejected, my lizard brain (LB) studies the blueprint carefully and determines that I should be more pleasant,  play nice, and keep my disappointments to myself.  My LB tells me that if I’m nicer, I won’t get my feelings hurt; I won’t be rejected; and I won’t be deserted.

In my relationship with Mark, my LB told me, “Put up and shut up, at all costs.  If you complain, or reject his treatment of you, he will leave.  You do not want him to leave you.”  The fear of being left was ever-present.  My logical brain knew that a healthy relationship didn’t include this behavior that I was getting from Mark, but my LB would over-ride my logical brain.  As I write this, I am wondering if the LB is the force that gets us out of bed in the morning, and convinces us to spend the whole day trying to fill our hole.

Mark’s lizard brain was just as active as mine.  He feared the loss of adulation and attention.  Everything he did - his treatment of me, and then the kids - was motivated by his desire to make sure we would continue to focus on him.  Is it accurate to suggest that his fear was larger than mine?  Can I assume that his vision was so clouded by his deep-seated fears, that he couldn’t see that his behavior brought about the very reaction that he most feared;  just as my behavior in my relationship with John, brought about the very thing that I feared - his rejection of me?  Interesting that our damn lizard brain pretends to have our best interests at heart, but in the end, if unchecked, it drives us to sabotage ourselves.

With Mark, my Mama Bear instinct kicked in.  (Perhaps the Mama Bear trumps the Lizard Brain?)  I acted to protect my kids.  I’ve said before, that if I hadn’t had kids, I’d probably still be married.  I’d still be putting up and shutting up.  In the relationship with John, I think the distance helped me see that my LB was running amok.  I would assume that his schedule was more important, and that I shouldn’t be wanting more from him.  If he was too busy for me, I would tell myself that I was fine with that.  Finally, I realized that I am NOT fine with that.

I would benefit from focusing on having my logical brain do more of the driving.  I need to acknowledge my fears, and understand their root causes.  I have shown that I am just fine alone - if you can call living with two kids and a cat, alone.  And it gets back to what I need to do to fill my own hole.  I can’t let my LB run the show.

There’s that sweet ping, again.  I’m not checking my inbox.

Promise.

The waters rise forcing the man to climb the side of his house to wait for God’s help on his roof.  Just then a motor boat goes by, and a woman in the boat yells up at him, “Hey!  We’ve got room.  You better come with us!”  The man yells back, “That’s nice of you, but I’m fine.  God will save me.”

The waters begin to crest the house.  The man is running out of time as he continues waiting and praying on the roof.  Suddenly a helicopter appears.  The pilot hovers over the man’s house and sends down a rope.  The man waves off the pilot.  The pilot cannot hear the man over the roar of the helicopter.  What the pilot couldn’t hear was the man yelling, “Thank you, but God will save me.”

After the man enters the gates of heaven, he summons up the courage to approach God.  The man says, “I don’t understand.  I prayed.  I waited.  I had faith.  Why didn’t you save me?”

God said, “Geez, Buddy.  I sent a rubber raft, a boat and a helicopter.  What more could I have done?”

…..

I think I get it.

I have read the inspirational quotes and the self-help books.  I have done my homework on how to be present in a relationship.  This time I actually expressed my wants and needs.  I didn’t expect him to read my mind.  I didn’t hide who I was or pretend to be what I thought he wanted.  Oh sure, I messed up, too.  But I was honest, and authentic and I tried.

I’ve been wondering if the Universe (God, Karma, whatever) really does conspire to give us what we want.  And then this morning at 4:15 it hit me.  When I made the choice to say goodbye to him, I put myself in a position to get what I want.  I am part of the Universe.   I can continue to not have my needs met, or I can get out.  If I can’t get what I want in this relationship, after giving it a good try, then I have to put myself in a position to be open to try again.  The Universe can’t help until I am ready for the help — until I help myself.

How long are you going to be waiting on the roof?

I can hear Will grinding coffee as I write this.  We got a new shipment of fresh coffee beans yesterday.  The whole house smells fantastic.  Some people like the sound of birds chirping, some like the sound of laughter coming from a group of happy children, some like the sound of  (Susan, turn your speakers down) Eva Cassidy’s incredible voice.  I like all those things.  But for real comfort, I like the sound of fresh beans grinding.  Will has also learned how to make an excellent cup of coffee.  If I let him have a cup, he’ll make me one, too.  You have to pick your battles.  It’s far healthier for an 11 year old to drink a cup of coffee with a tablespoon of half and half, than a can of soda with 12 tablespoons of sugar.  Jenny isn’t interested in coffee.  It won’t be long.

A zillion years ago I worked at a little coffee shop and learned how to layer lattes and roast beans.  That was where I learned to be a coffee snob.  It’s easy to burn beans.  There’s a fine line that you want to get close to, but if you aren’t careful, you can scorch the beans and then you’re toast.  (That reminds me of the precariousness of relationships.)  I’m picky about the mug, the grind, the roast, and the process.  But it is so worth it.  Almost four years ago, the kids and I were driving to Miles City for the Annual Bucking Horse Sale.  We stopped in Harlowton for lunch and I had the best cup of coffee I’d ever had.  I’ve been ordering Ian’s beans ever since, and I’ve never been disappointed.

I grew up Catholic.  I love ritual even if I don’t love church.  I slice my own bread.  I use a waiter-style corkscrew to first peel the foil, and then unscrew the cork.  (Everybody I know has some new-fangled gadget for opening a bottle of wine.  Nothing is as reliable as an old-fashioned cork screw. )  I’m fussy about how long to steep a tea bag and the temp of the water.  And I’m particularly fussy about how I make a cup of coffee.  My process is laborious, messy, slow and inefficient.  (Reminds me of the first stages of a new relationship, but I digress.  Again. )  However, this method produces a damn good cup of coffee.  And I have no problem sharing my method with you.

another tangent…

I have a friend who bakes these unbelievable raspberry tarts.  She will go to her deathbed with that recipe.  No matter how I try to butter her up, she will not share.  I don’t get that.  If she shared her recipe there would be many more happy individuals in the world, with raspberry tart crumbs on their lips, looking to the heavens and whispering her name.  There’s no way that wouldn’t add something positive to her karma.  Now, when I take a bite of one of her tarts, there’s the slightest hint of bitterness that wasn’t there before.  I think that’s what not sharing tastes like.

…

So here’s my method for making an outrageous cup of coffee.  Grind the fresh beans.  Don’t roll your eyes.  Don’t even think you can skip the grinding step.  It really does make a difference.  Don’t grind them too fine.  Stop grinding a second before you think they are done.  Set a plastic Melitta filter on top of your mug.  (This only makes one cup at a time, but since it looks like I’m going to be single for the rest of my life, that’s not an issue for me.)  Insert your #2 Melitta filter.  (Or use a little handled colander and a regular drip coffee maker filter and stand at the ready with a hand-full of paper towels to sop up the mess.)  Put in three scoops (about 3 heaping tablespoons) of fresh grounds.  Pour boiling water over the fresh (notice I’m big on fresh) grounds.  If your grind is right, you won’t need cream.  Grind it finer if you like a shot of half and half.  Personally, I’m taking a break from the half and half, because I don’t want a muffin top to go with my coffee.

There’s more to my recipe for moving on, but after this cup of coffee, we are off to the travel agent.  We’re picking up brochures for the cruise we’re taking in May.  Hey, if I’m gonna make lemonade from all these lemons, I might as well do it in the sun, on a ship, where someone else is doing the cooking and the cleaning.

I thought of that today when my neighbor walked by with her Golden Retriever.  She’s a pleasant gal.  I’ve not chatted with her a whole lot.  She has commented that she likes the wine glasses hanging from the wine rack above my kitchen window.  We exchange pleasantries.  She always has a smile on her face.  Her dog is beautiful, and he’s always excited to see Rita. Today her smile annoys me.  Last night I said goodbye to my long distance friend.  I can’t quite fathom how my neighbor can be so damned happy when I feel as though my heart has been flattened, drained of life, and pinned to the bulletin board.  Naturally, the neighbor lady doesn’t have a clue.  I envy her delight in the simple, mindless pleasure of walking her dog.  She makes one pass, two passes, and the kids comment on her happy grin.  By the fourth pass, I’m thinking, “Pick a different route.  Please.”

I am marveling at how messed up I am at the demise of this relationship.  After all, it was long distance.  I’m not sure it ever had the chance to get to the point of being called a relationship.  We didn’t get to know each other well enough to find out what would irritate us about each other.  Maybe that explains the sadness.  It’s over before it got bad, or before we had the chance to see that it could be really, really good.  But I’ve been thinking all day that it’s strange that I’m worse off now than when I left Mark.  Back then, things had been bad for quite awhile when I decided to move out.  By the time the kids and I had moved to my mom’s, all I could think was that it was great to be able to breathe again.  It was good to see that the sky was still blue.  Life could be simple and good.  I could find pleasure in the routine of caring for kids, and being with family.  We had come out of the darkness at Mark’s.  It was hard to be too sad.

The end of this relationship is different because I was clinging to what I thought was the promise of a happy future.  I see now that I was clinging to him like a lifeboat.  He even told me once that I should remember that this was my first relationship since my divorce — and all that implied.  (I hate the word ‘rebound’ as it applies to relationships.)  He was a huge part of my surviving the narcissism.  I’m thinking I’m going to learn more about the surviving now that I don’t have the lifeboat anymore.

Maybe it’s time we got a dog.