Macro shot of a small Buddha on my desk.  I look at him everyday and feel instantly peaceful inside, if only for a moment.  Taken August 18, 2005.

There are times when the answers to our most frustrating and seemingly unanswerable questions come to us in surprising ways and unexpected places.  Like finding a long lost earring under a couch cushion, these gifts appear to us when we may not have been specifically looking for them, but had been seeking in other ways for what seemed like forever.  Yesterday I received one such gift from a girlfriend named Helen at a restaurant called Houston’s.  This gift wasn’t given to me on a silver tray with golden light surrounding it, angels singing in the background like some grand epiphany.  It was more like a tipsy butterfly – it fluttered by with either of us hardly noticing it.  It was only later as I was driving to dinner when I thought about the butterfly, and the delicacy with which it moved through our conversation.  Upon closer reflection I saw it so clearly – an answer to a question I had been struggling with for years, an answer I thought would never be mine to discover.

I have alluded to certain personal difficulties that occurred a few years ago in many of my writings.  My intention in only alluding to these and not going into too many details was not be vague or secretive, but to avoid bringing up too much from my past that did not need to be re-visited.  To explain the answer I received yesterday, however, I must share a few details of what I went through in 2001 and 2002.  In August 2001 my husband "M" and I separated.  In mid-October I filed for divorce, and in early November he was diagnosed with Stage Four Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and given a 20% chance of survival.  What happened between M and I during all of this was that initially there was, of course, much anger and resentment, but once he got diagnosed, we had what I consider to be one of the sweetest times in my life.  It was a time when we re-connected for the purpose of keeping him alive, when we put aside all of our problems, anger and frustrations and did whatever we could to fill his world with as much positive energy and support as possible.  It was beautiful, bittersweet and also sad, because it was obvious a profound friendship continued to exist between us, but I still could not find it in my heart to go back to him.  Even today, I sob as I write this.

After many months during which we each literally saved each other’s lives – me supporting him during all of his surgeries and treatments and him being there for me when I collapsed emotionally from the weight of all that was falling apart around me – it was finally time to say good-bye.  His cancer was miraculously cured but our marriage was over.  In the end, I could never bring myself to actually say those words to him and I think if I were standing before him today I still wouldn’t be able to.  But I believe that in his heart he said those words to me, and we have not spoken in years.  The question that has plagued me ever since 2002 has been like a dark shadow over my heart – How is it possible we have no contact with each other anymore – no trace of any friendship anywhere – after sharing what we did during that first year after our separation?

I was discussing this with Helen yesterday and along came the butterfly when she said something along the lines of, "Well, that wasn’t reality…it was a special situation that the two of you were dealing with."  And then the butterfly silently danced away, barely giving me time to notice it.

Later that evening, when I thought about those words – "that wasn’t reality" – I realized I found my answer.   Of course it was reality that he was fighting for his life, but it wasn’t reality in the sense that we were able to ignore other very important circumstances, such as the fact that we were going through a divorce, pulling apart our home and letting go of the promises we made to each other just six years earlier.  Once he was given a clean bill of health, it was time to face those realities, and that is when that rare and delicate flower that was our friendship withered away and dropped its petals to the ground, one by one.

It is like the "honeymoon stage" of a new relationship, a dream vacation or the nostalgia we feel when we remember our first kiss – all of these experiences and memories are a part of what was once our reality, but they all melted into what I think people like to refer to as "the real world", like a pristine snowman that dissolves into a dirty puddle.  The level of reality where disagreements come in, bills need to be paid, the boy who gave us our first kiss breaks up with us and we have to look in the mirror and be responsible for our own actions.  REALITY in big neon letters, impossible to ignore. 

Perhaps the experiences we have in our more "dreamy reality" give us what we need to survive in our "real reality".  When I start to feel frustrated by all that was lost when M and I split, I inevitably find myself shifting my focus to that time after his diagnosis, when we were just friends, and I feel so supremely thankful for that I can’t help but breathe easier.   Being able to now see that this particular time wasn’t, in many ways, reality, it is easier to understand why that connection could not continue.  Knowing this does not eliminate the sadness I feel over this loss, but it does give me the perspective I needed to release this nagging question.

My friend Andrea wrote a lovely journal entry this week in which she talks about living in the perspective of "This is it and I’m satisfied."  With this question of mine now answered, my challenge is to think of M and say this out loud.  The time I had with him was perhaps the only time I will ever have with him; the flower that blossomed in the months of his treatment may never sprout a new bud again.  Am I satisfied?

How do you let go of a dream you once held so close to your heart?  Gently, with love, and with a profound feeling of gratitude for every moment you experienced living that dream.

My darling M, this is it and I am satisfied.