I miss him,
though I smile in confusion at just who or what I miss, precisely. Is it the
man or the connection, the sensations or the sense of purpose? I felt myself
missing her yesterday too, which was new. Is it the woman or the connection,
the sensations or the sense of purpose? And then, of course, a deep awareness
of missing them, which cycles more regularly these last couple years. Who do we
miss when life moves us into new paths and relationships, when those who have
been our companions are moved onto their new paths or are living their lives in their own directions, as
we all must? What of them was ever “lent” to us in the first place? What did we
feel we had been given that is now no longer “ours,” instigating this deep sense
of loss or yearning?
I’ve been
reading some old writing pieces, one out of necessity, the others out of curiosity.
One brought me back three years, into an early phase of a new spiritual
friendship. A book was sent and received as a gift. A teaching collaboration
began. Resonance and learning for transformation grew and a healthy but unruly
love was borne. It awakened me in public, grew my spirit to imagine previously
inconceivable offerings, challenges, possibilities. It shaped my own
relationship with God at a fundamental level, growing faith where there had
been knowledge, compassion where there had been duty, abundance where there had
been sufficient provision. I wince today at the vulnerability and passion of
prose that flowed out of me, some directly to him, some offered in faith to the
path. I know the grief of relinquishing him in faith. And I yearn for him or
the intensity of connection or whatever the yearning is about this time.
Another
writing brought me back even further to another awakening into spiritual
friendship. The new pastors had arrived and bought a home close to their new jobs.
One of them was man-handled by a “gentleman” in the congregation. The other
fell silent for years, his rage quelled in the face of small-town privilege,
provinciality, financial captivity. Two months later, two women sat on a bench
in a holy grotto as they became one heart to be shared. Holy desire, sanctified
and sanctifying, nourished them both, for a time. A way of covenant was
published. A new path of spiritual direction was birthed. An interfaith marriage
was transformed and new communities found new leaders. Then neither friend could
sustain presence with the other, for some reason. Grasping at fidelity to what
had been, each was required to relinquish the other into the arms of the
community, unknowing why or for what reason the friendship had completed.
Yearning
appears to have its own calendar, I guess. It has holidays and ordinary times
in a rhythmic cycle. Except one cannot hang this one on the wall, to anticipate
what comes or the mundane days that make up a life. No, yearning’s calendar
creates itself amongst people and uncontrollable connections.
When I trace this
life I know by yearning, I am surprised to see my calendar beginning as early as grade school--third
grade, to be specific--with my schoolteacher, Miss Donley. I remember her
telling the class that she would be leaving school that summer to get
married to a young man named (for us) Mr. Smith. (It occurs to me now to wonder
if that really was his name.) Regardless, that afternoon, getting home from school, I sat on the pilled green
circle-chair, pushing myself round and round on its swivel. The yearning hurt.
Her departure made a little girl cry, going round and round to nowhere in her
living room. No matter that the next year I would have been in another grade,
with another teacher. No matter that my own growth meant I was leaving her too.
Connection and separation, relinquishment and yearning.
Then I become aware of this
same energy again and again—or better, my body remembers these sensations again—across distance
and years: a high-school chemistry teacher, a college RA, an atheist uncle, an assistant soccer
coach, a roommate’s brother, a head of school, a pastor-scholar, a naming uncle, a professor of
theology, a professor of transformation, a mentor and her partner, an organist
and choral director, an impish Sister of Charity, a Quaker of nurture and
compassionate anger, a crusty-wise Hospice patient, and more. Each of these persons in my
mind today recalls a yearning energy into my body, my awareness. I have felt ashamed sometimes, when remembering them in my life, even as I mark them as the most significant
presences in my life. Like it was shameful to feel so deeply, such intense
connection to persons I should not love like that. Whatever “like that” meant in each case to me, or them. Whatever “should not” means. At root, these relationships
are the ones that have made me who I am, these are the ones who have shaped my
life’s work, have directed my path, have touched and transformed my spirit unto its delight,
resilience, and gifting.
And they
continue to do the same today. Remembering this, seeing this line of companions,
strengthens a sense of intention or purpose, regularly questioned amidst any
relinquishment. Remembering them, describing them even this briefly, reminds me
there is work to do and fruit to offer a world increasingly lonely in its
everpresent connection but lack of intimacy and provision. The blessings of
such connection—so many connections over the years—are newly received when seen
in such a line over time. How could I be so gifted with intense connection to so many different persons, of such remarkable gifts and passions they were willing to share with me?
The amazing thing is that what we've been given, truly given in faith over embodied time, has been etched in the historical record of living bodies. I remember
the gut-wrenching fear when my husband travelled to Israel/Palestine for a
period of three weeks when we would have little to no contact with each other.
Separation, we knew. Daily news media of violence and threat, I knew. And then my body remembered and taught: any companionship of Spirit never dies, in
the end, as it is always a part of one’s embodied life written into form by the Infinite. What Spirit gives is
never eradicated, especially if one relinquishes it in faith. I knew that if something happened to my husband, it would
be awful for me in loss and grief. But I also knew that everything we had had
together would always be a part of me, even if I couldn’t remember all I wanted
to remember of it. The sanctity of the body, perhaps, or its gift to us, daily.
Yearning’s
calendar and practice require a longitudinal view, it turns out, if one is to sustain the
yearning in faith, in fidelity to all those who have made us who we are, and
are becoming. It doesn’t soften the sensation of it all, the joy that stings,
but it does remind me to receive the day as it is with a smile. And to offer a prayer for all those who have shared their path with me. I am so very thankful for each and every one of you, even if we are now about other things. I wouldn't miss you if it hadn't been significant, formative, Real.