Category: love

I found a card for flowers from my now deceased boyfriend Kevin. It was used as a bookmark in Jesus, Entrepreneur, which grabbed my attention from a shelf yesterday. I even moved the card as I read a couple chapters, but I was looking at the blank side. Today, I turned it, not knowing I’d see:

Hey Ice Baby,

I hope these are half as beautiful as you are.

Wish I was there to deliver them in person.

The card came with the first flowers Kevin gave me. A dozen red roses, so classic I would’ve considered it cliché from anyone else. There’s no date. It doesn’t matter. Time took on a different tone with Kevin.

It’s all surreal now. In our chapter together, we experienced the love that clicked after all those years struggling in other relationships.

Back then, watching other couples, it seemed so easy, right and smooth. They assured me they worked hard on their relationships and I tried harder in ones that wouldn’t fulfill.

It wasn’t until I was with Kevin that what I suspected was proven true.

When you’re with the right person, everything is easier.

I knew it! Being with that special someone that fits you like your favorite pair of jeans makes even the tough times more comfortable.

See, I’ve had a lot of men and I’ve been given a lot of flowers, but none as striking as the ones Kevin gave me.

My sister and I marveled about their strong, sweet aroma. Those roses blossomed to the size of my fist and stayed fresh for weeks.

That particular bouquet came from Pro Flowers, but all the flowers Kevin gave me, even from the grocery store, carried more scent, lasted longer, and captured extraordinary beauty—like true representatives of his love.

The guy was something—not just to me. To his numerous friends and family, Kevin acted as an example of living full, giving freely and saying it all. He didn’t hold back.

We came together in divine timing after knowing each other for decades. He was my treasure after all the digging I’d done.

Our relationship felt like home for both of us. We wanted to live there.

Unfortunately, unexpectedly, he died—in his sleep. Had Kevin been awake, he would’ve tried to fight death off. Now, he’s gone.

So, I’m moving forward, with him by my side from the other side. In life, he gave me flowers. Now, it’s hearts in clouds.

And occasionally, I find flower cards as bookmarks. I let myself smile and feel how delighted I felt the day I received those roses, as happy he wants me to be now.

 

 

I spent all those years—what since age five?—convincing myself of the value of independence. It was the one thing I could always fall back on: the beauty of being on my own.

Sure, I had multiple chapters of happy with men, but when things ended I knew how to bounce and become better.

After my first divorce, my stepmom said, “A lot of people say they’ll never marry again, but with you, I’m starting to believe it.” I did, too. I meant it. I didn’t need anyone and I was good at walking away.

Still, it was tiring. I wanted to learn to stay. I did, with my second husband, for over a decade. For much of it, I was dying inside.

I got the value of a relationship. I just never got the kind I wanted, the kind I wrote about, and believed in like a dream that comes true for some. I was okay with that—in a way that I have a tendency to affirm I’m fine when what I long to be is fantastic.

Little did I know, my friend Kevin had the same dream—that someday he’d find the kind of gal and relationship his mother wished for him. I had no idea the depth of Kevin’s longing because when we got together, he talked about his crazy ex-wife he hated and his not-so-great girlfriends who came before. The one previous to me was good, but that’s a long way from the grand love this man dreamed of.

Somehow in 2014, our walls fell from our friendship into something deep. With Kevin’s confidence, coaxing, and congruent actions, we both dove into the crazy, sexy, cool relationship that became us: Fire & Ice.

Our paths to that place became worthwhile. Early on, Kevin said, “Why didn’t we do this 20 years ago?”

Because we couldn’t; we had lessons to learn. I needed to be prepared to let go, to totally trust and tell my truth and be open to his in the ways I’d only talked a good game before.

Back when Kevin and I were just friends, I said, “Relationships are about compromise.” Kevin said, matter of factly: “No, they’re not.”

My god! How many times had I compromised myself, my voice, or my values in an effort to make a relationship work? No wonder my independence after a break-up felt like a vacation.

With Kevin, it all felt like a vacation from everything I’d known before. And yet, it was everything my heart and soul had pushed me towards all those years.

I wanted all or nothing: the communication, openness, honesty, passion, and fun. Kevin wanted it all and gave it all. He said, “I’m all in, Icey.”

Then, he gave me something I could lean into with my feminine authentic self, not some version I thought I should be. I lost my need to appear perfect. He loved me through my anger and fear. Trust me, those don’t always show up as pretty.

I loved Kevin through his rants. I even spoke up and cut him short. I didn’t judge him for smoking cigars or all the drugs he’d done years prior.

I understood him and that made all the difference. In his presence, my compassion muscle strengthened.

I saw his worst (when he lied) and his best (the way he showed up). Kevin knew my failures and insecurities. He didn’t let that define how he saw me.

That was the kind of relationship I craved. We were both in it for the long haul and in no hurry to do anything but enjoy our time together. I thank God we did.

I thank God for it all—except how Kevin’s life was cut short. We didn’t know he’d die completely unexpectedly of a heart attack in his sleep on March 4, 2016.

In the face of this loss, I don’t grab up my independence as protection for the pain. Nor do I think I can replace him. Some things are impossible, like what we had.

Maybe it had to be everything it was, not only the lessons we each needed to learn going in, but the lack of warning for his going out of this world.

I resisted enough in the beginning. Had I known the pain awaiting would be harsher than any break-up, I might’ve taken a pass. As Garth Brooks sings, “I could’ve missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance.”

Not that dance. No way. It was my favorite.

People say, “Don’t isolate.” What if I connect to peace, the divine, and my loved ones on the other side in solitude?

Being with others—anyone, at this point—feels confining. Solo, on my deck, with my dog, or walking in the woods, I’m free to let my heart and mind converse while my soul steps forward.

When I’m alone, my beloved talks to me from the beyond. What?! You say the girl’s gone bat shit crazy? When I’m alone, I don’t care because even if it’s make believe (I know it’s not), I’m continuing a relationship I never wanted to end. Neither did he. Maybe that’s why we’re so lucky.

I’m lucky. I’m loved by so many. People want to reach out and comfort me in my grief. In gratitude, I try to reach back, but it’s an uncomfortable stretch for me.

I make that stretch because I live in this world. Being with others grounds me like a teenager in love with a boy her parents can’t understand.

Once grounded, I try what works within those parameters: socializing. But, small talk is like eating sand. Maybe because I was in sales for so long. Now, I can hardly tolerate what I once did so well for a living.

I’ve shifted. If you don’t want to go deep and be real, I’m not interested. I’m not saying I can’t be. It takes work for me to come outside of my mind and be fully present with you. I strive to listen and ask questions, due to my craving for soul connection—or at least erasing the mask of personality and finding the point where we’re the same.

It appears people in this land of extroverts enjoy people’s company regardless of the depth of conversation. Maybe that’s not true, but I’ve found a lot of people not so into being real. They only pretend to answer questions about who they are. Deflection is a mastered art in socialization.

So many people wear masks and shields when they enter the world. It makes sense. We’ve all been hurt. Sometimes it’s unconscious. As authentic and present as I strive to be, I keep my old shields handy. They go up readily and rightfully in the company of certain individuals. Don’t we all do that, even a little bit?

I feel it and I’m tired. I don’t want the weight of my shield and the mask no longer represents me, but I don’t yet know what does. I’m transforming.

I like being at home, alone, naked of my armor, and free to just BE: happy, sad, angry, blissful, and bereft. Here at home, I feel secure and comfortable—the safety extroverts get out there with other people.

Let me be clear: I don’t like a lot of people. So, now you know. I spent my life trying to like everyone and judge no one. Kevin helped me to see and accept this truth and many others about myself. I judged myself for not being like Kevin or my sister Jayne. They seem to like most of the people they meet. I find it fascinating and impressive, but I no longer pretend I feel the same.

I don’t like a lot of people. That’s true, but it’s not that I dislike, disrespect, or wish them any harm. It’s just that their company doesn’t spark anything in me. Nor mine in them.

Then, others light me up, turn me on, ignite my energy, and help me remember who I aspire to be (ME!) and who I am without my mask or shield: a beautiful soul playing a role on earth. I recognize the same in them. Although I despise the word tribe, it fits.

I come from a small tribe. Currently, it’s a tribe of one plus. In my tribe, we hold private ceremonies. My dog, God, guides, angels, and loved ones on the other side, even Mother Mary, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus Christ are invited.

If I share this truth outside my in social circles with unspoken conventions, I feel self-conscious, pretentious (even though I’m only sharing my experience), and defensive (as if I have to prove what you’ll never believe). Why?

At home alone, I relish my introvert status. I feel no dispute in who I am. Well, that’s not quite true. I see my inner conflicts and sit with them. I read (solo). I write (solo). I pray, walk and think with myself and my (imaginary?) man. I never enjoyed anyone’s company so much as when Kevin was here. I still do. It’s my private heaven.

I know he’s dead. I’m grieving in my weird, wild, introverted ways. Let me.

Let me be alone with him. Let him whisper in my ear, make jokes, send me signs, and dance with me. Maybe I’m crazy. “Crazy, sexy, cool!” Kevin says.

Is this why they say, “Don’t isolate”? You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m an introvert. I like my company.

Here’s the other thing I find happens to me—as an introvert, surrounded by extroverts (people I love). I say yes on their behalf. Or, I say yes trying to convince myself it’s all about the attitude or energy I bring.

So, I find myself in the back of my sister’s boyfriend’s new Toyota Avalon. I’m uncomfortable. Can you direct some air back here?  Not so fucking much! Geez, I’m freezing. I recognize this as a small form of a panic attack, although I don’t believe in such things. But, if a panic attack is like Get me the fuck out of here! Why did I come? I want to go home! This is stupid.

Just breathe, I tell myself. Alice, just breathe. Then, eat. You need some food. I breathe. I eat. I mentally cuss out the waiter. Where’s my goddamn beer?

Don’t worry. I’m not turning into a drunk any more than I’m going to be fat. It’s just that I have an insatiable appetite to feel good. Right now, it’s sometimes cheap leaps. I allow myself because I know myself.

I’m an introvert and a rebel. Basically, I spend time alone thinking of how I can shake up the world. I want to fight the big things—racism, poverty, electing money, the prison industry…but right now I’ve got the ghost of grief on me. That works well for my introvert self.

But, the rebel in me? She likes to slam doors, burn bridges, jump on the back of motorcycles. My rebel self likes to walk away from relationships and jobs. She wants to prove her freedom. I do what I want!

I see her eating and drinking like she doesn’t care. She cares deeply about her health, but she’s so fucking scared that anything can happen to anyone and she just has to hold it together until the next time it falls apart. See, this girl in me, this rebellious, introverted writer has a broken heart the size of the canyons she ran through in her New Mexico childhood.

I’m trying to get that girl back. I remember being that little introvert, the rebel who abandoned Campfire Girls to build a fort in the canyon behind Mountain School.

In third grade, I ditched school to play in the canyon. Even though I got caught, I’ll never regret that day.

Or the ones where I lingered on the edge of cliffs while resisting the temptation to jump into death, darkness and the earth floor of the canyons.

I have within me a need to go to the depths of my grief alone. Just like the teenager who ran her way through more canyons than I can count.

Don’t worry. As was the rule, I’ll be home for dinner. Or I’ll call.

Please don’t worry about me when I isolate. I’m not alone.

 

I love my purple pens. I love water, sunshine, smooth jazz, and my Black Lab. I love time to myself, the smell of trees and their tall green leaves stretching into the bright blue Ohio sky. I love tennis balls on behalf of my dog Phoenix who adores them.

I love drinking out of my deceased boyfriend’s coffee cup—the striped one with a chip—once a week. It’s like a special occasion—a flood of warmth and memories that I can’t hold every morning.

I’m in mourning, I suppose—although that sounds morose and inaccurate. Grieving is more to the point. It’s a striving forward with cement boots of sadness. Sometimes each step forward reminds you you’re walking in circles. So be it.

Damn, you know I’m transforming if I’m saying, “So be it.” Anyone who knows Alice Lundy knows she never said, “So be it” in her life unless sarcastically.

Hell, maybe that’s half my problem. I’ve spent my life trying to improve everything, especially myself. What if I just love life the way I loved Kevin? Or the way he showed me love—strong, solid, simple, and passionate?

I must remember my way of being evoked that in him—as his did in me. We were a collaboration of our best selves.

I felt no need to change Kevin. Nor he me. I’d like to say all of my relationships embodied that principle. Well, there’s a difference between truly accepting someone and telling myself I should, if you know what I mean.

With Kevin, I already knew what I considered the worst of him—the things that normally would tempt me to judge or dismiss. I already knew those things and Kevin knew my areas that some might consider character flaws.

I learned the depth of him later. The more he revealed his deep, dark secrets, the more I snuggled into his arms. He showed himself and held me tighter. He let me in!

It wasn’t just that Kevin shared his internal self; it was that I found him more and more fascinating. I felt compassion for his dark edges because he described his journey in a way that connected with my heart.

And when I shared with him? Ha! I told him the worst of me when we were just friends and I didn’t fear him breaking up with me or the look in his eyes changing.

His eyes brightened when he read my book. Kevin got me. He got me when I told him stories, exploded with jealousy, or felt ill. He almost always said just the right thing.

Kevin’s reactions, compassion, and acceptance washed away painful memories that had haunted me.

I always sought more and spent decades trying to improve myself in order to qualify for something grand.

I didn’t realize I was always qualified. I just hadn’t connected with the right man who could recognize my beauty, brains, and crazy as being loveable and let me love him like a mirror loves confidence.

We were crazy, sexy, cool. FIRE! & ICE! I was loved by the FIRE! I am transformed and continue to change. Through it all, I love myself, as I did the day Kevin barged into my heart.

Now, I go back to basics. I love sunshine, mornings, coffee in his cup, watching birds at his feeder and deer in my yard. I love the simple things. I seek them while I grieve.