I let myself drift. I made a promise to myself to not get into another committed relationship, and I kept it. I went out with my girlfriends. I wanted to heal from everything.
I bought a bong and smoked regularly again. It was the only thing that made the pain go away. I gave myself homeopathic pain medication shots. I hiked Temescal Canyon, a mile-plus loop in the Pacific Palisades that let me slip into the folds of mountains and disappear into the wilderness. The trail passed by a secret waterfall that fell with ever-changing force depending on the rainfall and water level and produced the most beautiful sounds, a rhythmic music that was never the same score twice but always and instantly relaxing.
It was nature beckoning with its gentle touch. Come close. Sit down. Breathe. Connect and heal.
I took to laying a drop cloth by the river and painting. I was trying to make sense of my life. This little patch of canyon became my View-Master, allowing me to see the beauty that I longed to see and feel in my own life. I was still seeing a therapist but she didn’t seem as helpful as time in the wild. I let myself go only so far in sessions with her. Out in the canyon, I let go of everything and lost myself in the quiet, soaring through treetops in the rush of wind, following birds until they disappeared, or listening to the sound of water flowing downriver and letting my soul drift to hitch a ride.
Sometimes Sigal and Limor joined me for a hike, but mostly I ventured off on my own, eager to get out of my large home and away from the phone and melt into the holy power of this outdoor cathedral. On one hike, I found a small bench tucked away off the trail path. How had I never seen it before? It was pretty secluded, situated amongst a lot of foliage. I sat down with the fresh air caressing my face and I cried. I hadn’t planned on bawling like that and didn’t know I needed to, but I let it come out of me, my own waterfall of frustration.
When Sigal, Limor, and I had hiked the canyon, they gushed about how much they cherished the time they had alone with themselves. I envied their self-confidence and comfort with who they were. Not that they weren’t working on themselves, but they liked who they were. I couldn’t begin to imagine what that felt like, but I wanted it for myself. Given the amount of time I spent on my own, I didn’t understand why I couldn’t find that sort of acceptance. Forget contentment. Never mind peace. Those were the ultimate goals, but I looked at the inner calm and love I desired with a sense of evanescence. It was there. Or was it?
One day Sigal and Limor invited me to a dance and music event at the Queen Mary in Long Beach. I accepted. It would be my first night out since my final confrontation with Jay a little more than three months earlier. I had been treating my bladder pain with homeopathy, with marijuana, and it felt manageable. I was divorced, over Jay, starting to feel better physically, and, as I told my girlfriends when I said I would go with them to the dance, life was starting to feel worth living again.
I wanted to dance.
The whole night was spectacular. The best part was that I met a guy named Mike. I hadn’t planned on connecting with anyone and was generally in the mindset that I needed to live life on my own before riding tandem again. But it happened. He was a dancer, one of a relatively small number of amazing pros who competed that night in a breakdancing battle. He was extremely handsome, and fit, and wore his hair in dreadlocks. I walked right up to him, said hi, and we talked late into the night.
Because it was my first time out in a minute and the environment was pretty crazy, the ladies and I decided to leave early. So we missed seeing the big announcement that Mike and his dance crew had won their competition. But I had given Mike my number and he texted me the good news. Once I was home, we connected again and talked more.
My mind was completely blown when I asked him what sign he was. I had been surrounded by Scorpios—Robert, Jay—and when Mike told me his birthday, I reacted by throwing the phone against the wall. It was the same day as Jay’s. Incredible! Too freaky. How could I fall right in with another Scorpio?
I walked across the room and picked the phone back up. Mike was still on the line. It typified our relationship. He was always there for me. Eventually I had to literally push him away. We spent years together. A sweet and gentle guy, he lived in Las Vegas. I spent countless hours driving through the desert to spend time with him. He shared a house with a friend of his and his friend’s girlfriend, but it had enough space for us to have our privacy.
Every day, he and his friends met up and practiced. For them, dance was a mix of art and discipline. It showed. Their performances were spellbinding articulations of passion, joy, spirit, and feeling through movement. Their crew won almost every competition they entered. I was enamored of his ability and proud of him. He had unique qualities and an infectious spirit that he shared in exuberant bursts of movement, and I found out where he got all that when he introduced me to his family.
Mike was Hispanic, and his family lived in El Paso, a beautiful city on the Rio Grande in the western part of Texas. I went there several times, including one Christmas holiday. Each time, his immediate and extended family welcomed me with hugs and a warmth that was wonderful to experience. They afforded me the privilege of seeing the way a healthy, loving family worked. Their home crackled with laughter and conversation; meals were central to the day’s activities, especially dinner. Everyone gathered, ate, talked, asked one another questions, ventured opinions.
I envied the love and support Mike’s parents gave him. They took pride in their son’s talent, drive, and accomplishments. No wonder he moved with such uninhibited exuberance, I thought. In contrast, I saw the way I lived: an empty home, getting high by myself, trying to escape the problems stemming from not having that kind of nurturing, stable, loving foundation.
Did people know how to love that way instinctively? Or was it learned? Could it be relearned? I wish I could say I knew. What I did come to learn, though, was that when I eventually cheated on Mike, his heart broke and so did mine.