that crazy little thing called...
My friend once told me, "On my first date, I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that this might be it." I understood what she was trying to describe -- the knowledge that she'd found her "other," her soul mate, the person she knew with utter, overwhelming certainty was meant for her. God, that sounded good to me. I waited years for that feeling. It never came.
That may sound odd, given that when I met D, he was almost everything I wanted. But sharing values, habits and even sex doesn't keep one from clashing over the fact that a person doesn't like one's friends, or from being convinced that dropping one's options might derail one's career.
Out of such moments grow doubt -- the inner whispers that something is missing. For a long time, I listened to those whispers. I don't any more. Mostly, I've come to realize that my failure to experience that "aha" moment of clarity about D isn't really about him. It's about me. At heart, I'm a compulsive second-guesser, the kind of person who always finds it easier to long for what I don't have than to rejoice in what I do.
A case in point: For years, all I wanted was a dream job. But after I did, I couldn't stop scouring the ads -- I searched, overcome by an excited, sick feeling, for the one that got away. It's the same with love. I've always found it easiest to be passionate about men who are elusive, unavailable or half out the door.
I'll be honest: I'm sorry I never felt that "This is it!" lightening bolt. But D and I remain bound by the same shared ideas, values and habits that brought us together, as well as by brief history. It's a connection that goes all the way to the soul -- even I can see it.
I didn't always think that two people could be soul mates. You might say I believed in work instead, as in, Don't all relationships require work? Couldn't I get along with almost anyone if I worked hard enough, if I made enough sacrifices, if I put enough of myself on the back burner for a while?
That's what I did for years before now. Soul mates, it seemed to me, were for dreamier girls with Cinderella complexes who lacked the gritty determination to hammer their relationships into shape. Little did I know, as I labored, that I would stumble onto a soul mate myself.
Not that meeting the partner of one's dreams takes the place of good old-fashioned hard work. For instance, after the stomach-flipping first few months with D, along came the tougher stuff: my learning that his occasional choices were best left unquestioned; his coming to understand that when I say I'm hungry, I can't wait another 10 minutes to eat. But beneath our sometimes odd talks lay something else, something surprising. Sure, we both loved food and travel. But what startled me was the sense that we had always known each other. There was an instinctive kinship between us that had nothing to do with sex or dating or even love.
A soul mate, I've discovered, is a person with whom you can communicate on the deepest level -- beyond words, beyond our clothing and imperfect bodies, regardless of time and age and the awkward agreements we reach. And when you meet someone who warms to what's buried beneath your surface, who sees and celebrates the essence of who you are without your having to explain it over soggy breakfasts and late-night negotiations, you have found a soul mate.
Of course, not everyone marries that person. Some of us, if we're lucky, have a great marriage and find a soul mate on the side: a friend at work, say, or someone we encounter online. Soul mates don't have to be about sex or marriage. The soul doesn't care about all that stuff, about a person's taste in restaurants or flossing habits or ability to argue a point. All it wants -- whether we owners know it or not -- is the company of other like-minded souls.
I used to think that finding a soul mate was finding my "other half" -- a person who would reflect my thoughts, my desires, who would satisfy all of my emotional needs. I wanted him to do for me what I couldn't do for myself. This notion led to a multitude of disappointments. Although the man who became my boyfriend certainly wanted me to be happy, he couldn't come close to accomplishing the enormous task I had set out for him. What I really wanted, it turns out, was a soul slave, not a soul mate. Either I had made the wrong choice in a boyfriend, or I needed to figure out how to be with the one I'd opted for, which meant I had to find a way to get my needs satisfied. I took the latter route.
Now I know that you can find soul mates wherever you look for them. But first, you have to abandon the idea that there is only one soul mate in the world for every person. Strapping yourself to that idea is like wearing the first pair of shoes you ever really loved for the rest of your life. Yes, they're beautiful. Yes, they fit perfectly. But that doesn't mean you'll never wear another pair. Eventually, those favorites will wear out from the strain of bearing your weight, day after day. Wouldn't both you and your shoes be happier if you had several pairs you loved -- each a bit differently perhaps -- but loved just the same?
My mate is only one of several people I consider to be a soul mate. I love each of these people deeply, but differently. In all of these relationships, I often know what the other is thinking. In the constellation of life's friendships, we are one another's most constant stars. What makes them burn so brightly? Love, loyalty, trust and the mutually understood intention that we will be ourselves, sharing what we're thinking and feeling, and recognizing and respecting our differences.
Reaching that soul-mate state with D was not instantaneous. Though we felt a compelling connection, it took us time to get to know each other, and to establish what I now think of as the real beginning: the mutual recognition of each other as "different" -- from one another, from everyone else, even from whom we originally thought we were. It was then that our deepest connection grew. Each friendship reminds me how to practice my capacity for connection. And the better I get at that, the happier I am, alone and with all of the people I love.
That may sound odd, given that when I met D, he was almost everything I wanted. But sharing values, habits and even sex doesn't keep one from clashing over the fact that a person doesn't like one's friends, or from being convinced that dropping one's options might derail one's career.
Out of such moments grow doubt -- the inner whispers that something is missing. For a long time, I listened to those whispers. I don't any more. Mostly, I've come to realize that my failure to experience that "aha" moment of clarity about D isn't really about him. It's about me. At heart, I'm a compulsive second-guesser, the kind of person who always finds it easier to long for what I don't have than to rejoice in what I do.
A case in point: For years, all I wanted was a dream job. But after I did, I couldn't stop scouring the ads -- I searched, overcome by an excited, sick feeling, for the one that got away. It's the same with love. I've always found it easiest to be passionate about men who are elusive, unavailable or half out the door.
I'll be honest: I'm sorry I never felt that "This is it!" lightening bolt. But D and I remain bound by the same shared ideas, values and habits that brought us together, as well as by brief history. It's a connection that goes all the way to the soul -- even I can see it.
I didn't always think that two people could be soul mates. You might say I believed in work instead, as in, Don't all relationships require work? Couldn't I get along with almost anyone if I worked hard enough, if I made enough sacrifices, if I put enough of myself on the back burner for a while?
That's what I did for years before now. Soul mates, it seemed to me, were for dreamier girls with Cinderella complexes who lacked the gritty determination to hammer their relationships into shape. Little did I know, as I labored, that I would stumble onto a soul mate myself.
Not that meeting the partner of one's dreams takes the place of good old-fashioned hard work. For instance, after the stomach-flipping first few months with D, along came the tougher stuff: my learning that his occasional choices were best left unquestioned; his coming to understand that when I say I'm hungry, I can't wait another 10 minutes to eat. But beneath our sometimes odd talks lay something else, something surprising. Sure, we both loved food and travel. But what startled me was the sense that we had always known each other. There was an instinctive kinship between us that had nothing to do with sex or dating or even love.
A soul mate, I've discovered, is a person with whom you can communicate on the deepest level -- beyond words, beyond our clothing and imperfect bodies, regardless of time and age and the awkward agreements we reach. And when you meet someone who warms to what's buried beneath your surface, who sees and celebrates the essence of who you are without your having to explain it over soggy breakfasts and late-night negotiations, you have found a soul mate.
Of course, not everyone marries that person. Some of us, if we're lucky, have a great marriage and find a soul mate on the side: a friend at work, say, or someone we encounter online. Soul mates don't have to be about sex or marriage. The soul doesn't care about all that stuff, about a person's taste in restaurants or flossing habits or ability to argue a point. All it wants -- whether we owners know it or not -- is the company of other like-minded souls.
I used to think that finding a soul mate was finding my "other half" -- a person who would reflect my thoughts, my desires, who would satisfy all of my emotional needs. I wanted him to do for me what I couldn't do for myself. This notion led to a multitude of disappointments. Although the man who became my boyfriend certainly wanted me to be happy, he couldn't come close to accomplishing the enormous task I had set out for him. What I really wanted, it turns out, was a soul slave, not a soul mate. Either I had made the wrong choice in a boyfriend, or I needed to figure out how to be with the one I'd opted for, which meant I had to find a way to get my needs satisfied. I took the latter route.
Now I know that you can find soul mates wherever you look for them. But first, you have to abandon the idea that there is only one soul mate in the world for every person. Strapping yourself to that idea is like wearing the first pair of shoes you ever really loved for the rest of your life. Yes, they're beautiful. Yes, they fit perfectly. But that doesn't mean you'll never wear another pair. Eventually, those favorites will wear out from the strain of bearing your weight, day after day. Wouldn't both you and your shoes be happier if you had several pairs you loved -- each a bit differently perhaps -- but loved just the same?
My mate is only one of several people I consider to be a soul mate. I love each of these people deeply, but differently. In all of these relationships, I often know what the other is thinking. In the constellation of life's friendships, we are one another's most constant stars. What makes them burn so brightly? Love, loyalty, trust and the mutually understood intention that we will be ourselves, sharing what we're thinking and feeling, and recognizing and respecting our differences.
Reaching that soul-mate state with D was not instantaneous. Though we felt a compelling connection, it took us time to get to know each other, and to establish what I now think of as the real beginning: the mutual recognition of each other as "different" -- from one another, from everyone else, even from whom we originally thought we were. It was then that our deepest connection grew. Each friendship reminds me how to practice my capacity for connection. And the better I get at that, the happier I am, alone and with all of the people I love.
posted by Jane Doe @ 8:18 PM
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