Tenacious Magic ~ Chapter 21

Pink lotus * a famous photographer * change the world * The Oracle * fantasy * the path of the sly man * butterfly or snake * a new old friend * it has to stop * write the book * hide the book

My portrait/headshot by an unnamed famous photographer, 2011

Like an intriguing book, one’s life proceeds through many different chapters and even many different editions. Some are large and some are small chapters, but they all belong. And the chapters are written not just from the point of view of the present, but from what we call the past, and what we can now see from an aerial point of view—a point of view that takes into account that the heart sees things certain ways; the mind sees the same thing, possibly only slightly differently; that the body sees the same thing, except it sees it in a way peculiar to the body. That aerial view is as though you’ve climbed a tree and you’re not just seeing your house, you’re seeing the entire neighborhood, and perhaps the mountain range in the distance. You see the greater setting in which you have lived your life so that each version, each different edition—the crone would say, all of them—are your true life. This is the compendium, the document…this is the beautiful Book of Life into which you are written on every single page.

—Clarissa Pinkola Estés, The Power of the Crone

Dear Friends,

This week in Tenacious Magic, we come to the end of my relationship with H. But, this isn’t where the story ends. There will be one more chapter, a post-script that takes place seven years later.

As usual, the writing cooked me. I had to stew in some hard memories to get to the essence of the tale. The nature of the alchemical flame was trust, and how it is woven through with the threads of truth. Can I trust myself to know what is true? What and who is trustworthy? Can I trust H? Can I trust myself? The only thing that feels certain to me is that I can trust the process. I didn’t then. This whole project, in a sense, has been about me trusting it now.

It would be easy to say I didn’t “trust the process” in 2011 because H wasn’t trustworthy. But, that’s too simplistic. He actually was. I trusted him—rightly—to guide me through a spiritual awakening. For two full years, he held me through an intense process and he did it skillfully. That process required a great deal of trust—more trust than many humans ever come to know. Trust is essential to the teacher/student relationship. He earned mine and he stewarded us well through rough waters. We did, indeed, reach the other shore. I will be forever grateful to him for that.

But, at a certain point, things shifted and suddenly I couldn’t trust him. What was that point? When did the wind shift? Was it there all along—the weakness? The misuse of power? The desire? Or did it surprise him, too? Shadow is just that—invisible, hiding outside the light. He was masterful at helping me see my own shadow, so I assumed he was checking his own. Both of us missed it at the crucial moment.

Or did we? This week I wrestled with the ways I ignored truth and overrode my intuition in order to keep myself in a desirable fantasy. I pulled the wool over my own eyes. I chose to ignore breakthrough moments—moments that broke the spell I was under—because they would have put an immediate stop to something that was serving me, too. #metoo.

When I confessed my self-deception to a friend, he asked me, “What was the story that was more important than the truth?” The answer came to me quickly: I was chosen. H was special in my eyes and he’d chosen me, so that made me special. As soon as I said it aloud, I was confronted by how young that sounded—like a child wanting to be truly seen.

The healing process has required me to attend to the wounds that made me susceptible to deceit (by him and me). I’ve also had to circle back to that time to show my younger self that she did know—her intuition was right and serving her well. I don’t blame her for not acting immediately on the gut feelings. I don’t blame her for wanting to stay in the fantasy she was in. But, I want her to know she never lost her own connection to truth.

Maybe in the end blame is altogether useless. I’ve felt a social pressure in telling this story to locate the perpetrator; to name the crime. The quest for certainty gets in the way of just…living life…which is the greatest teacher and the greatest mystery. The degree to which we can trust the process is proportional to the degree to which we trust ourselves and each other. Maybe relating is a big classroom for working out the kinks; offering infinite opportunities to hone and refine our integrity and trustworthiness with others and find the blindspots by seeing more fully TOGETHER.

My current mantra is one I saw on a t-shirt: TRUST THE MYSTERY. Yesterday, I made a mandala with this prayer in mind. The process was prickly (I was stung), yucky (dead snail), ugly (weird colors drew me), dark (it was growing dark), exciting (cool plants speaking to me), difficult (the hill at the base of the tree made it tough to build), and ultimately beautiful (voilá). Sounds like the Great Mystery of Feminine Wisdom, The Way of Nature…God.

I have no regrets. Life is beautiful…even when it’s ugly. I am happy to have written a Book of Life with more than one page in it. I hope you are, too.

Note: If you are new to my Substack, Tenacious Magic is an emergent, serial novel I am writing about the teacher/student relationship, the masculine and feminine, Katherine Mansfield and Gurdjieff, power, sexuality, and time. I publish a chapter every Friday. Here is an introduction to the project. Here is Chapter 1. Here is the previous chapter 20. The chapters are free up to Chapter 7, at which point I put it behind the paywall. If you enjoy it, please subscribe and join the discussion. I incorporate reader comments and invite opinions and insights from readers to influence and inform where the story goes.

Now, back to the story…

---

New York City, 2011

“What is the significance of the pink lotus?”

I’m not sure what H is referring to. I think for a moment and then realize he’s talking about the tattoo on my back. The question feels intimate in a new way. He knows me better than any man and yet he’s only just learned about the tattoo on my back. I had been emotionally naked with him, but had to get naked-literally-for him to see this part of me.

“I got the tattoo in San Francisco when I was 21. I knew without a doubt I wanted a lotus, but wasn’t sure why. One Sunday I went to North Beach, got the tattoo, and afterwards went to City Lights...the bookstore. All I could think about was The Lotos Eaters by Tennyson. I couldn’t remember what it was about. I sat there in the aisles of the bookstore reading that tragic poem and became worried that I’d made a big mistake. I thought the lotus had to do with awakening, but in this poem, the sailors all become hypnotized, high on the opium, and forget to go home. I sat there with the bandage on my back, full of regret, but also certain there was something more to it. A few days later, a friend of mine—I guess one of the first yogis I met in this life—reassured me, telling me the symbolism of the lotus is enlightenment. It grows out of the mud, In this world, but not of it. I prefer that interpretation.”

He is listening so carefully and, it seems to me, lovingly. I don’t think I’ve ever been listened to like this before…not even by him. His curiosity seems to arise from love. I feel my voice resonating within him. The space between us is sacred and also private. I feel a little intoxicated.

“How many petals are there?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve never counted."

I stand and walk to him, turn around, and lift my shirt. He counts with his fingers tracing the petals, “Twelve. The heart chakra.”

I look over my shoulder into his eyes, which are like two kaleidoscopes up close. I feel I might drown in the tenderness.

“I really hope this is not a Tennyson situation,” I think to myself.

*******

The consultancy H and I have been discussing for years is now happening. The erotic energy between us has propelled us into the next phase of our dynamic. I feel unstoppable, on top of the world. I walk around like I have a secret identity.

H texts me the address where I should meet him for our headshots. We need photos for the website, so he’s called in a favor from one of his clients. “The guy owes me,” he says.

I look at the address: Christopher Street in the Village. Then, I google the name of the photographer and I’m confronted with a screen full of glorious celebrity portraits. He has shot covers for Vanity Fair, GQ, Rolling Stone, MET galas, Oscar parties…everyone who’s anyone. My stomach drops. I hate being photographed. The appointment is tomorrow. I call the one person I know who can advise me—Alice.

Alice is one of my best friends and the personal assistant to a celebrity couple—both actors; both have been photographed by this guy. She’s a true new Yorker—direct, unflinching, jaded in the way that makes her streetwise. Alice is also a lesbian in a loving relationship with a wonderful woman. Over the years, she has warned me and held me when I’ve been demolished by bad choices in my romantic entanglements. I trust Alice.

I tell her where I am going tomorrow to be photographed.

“What the fuck? How is this happening? He doesn’t photograph anyone who’s not famous.”

I explain that H set it up. She knows I’ve been working with him these past few years. She knows H works with celebrities. She does not know that I’ve become intimate with him. I can’t tell her—I haven’t told anyone. 

“Do you think I need to get my make-up done?”

She scoffs, “Uh, definitely. And hair. And what are you going to wear? You need to call Cleo now. Get her to come do your makeup tomorrow morning. And wear that cream top you wore on your birthday…bring a couple of changes. Solid colors, no stripes or patterns. Nothing complicated.”

I feel relief. She’s exactly right. I knew she would know what to do.

“You’re getting a headshot by one of the most famous photographers in the world. You know this guy shoots Obama? Only A-List…” She laughs, “This actually doesn’t surprise me. You are the craziest person I know who looks the most normal.”

“Thank you, Alice. I’ll take that as a compliment. You know some really crazy people.”

*************

I’m reading aloud from my notebook to H. He asked me to write the copy for our business website and I finally feel I’ve cracked it. 

“Look around you. Really look. Open your eyes to the news. Suspend the fear that you’re not going to like what you see; that it will make you angry; that it might threaten you or your family. Suspend these ideas and just look at the condition of our culture. America, our beautiful land of bounty and promise, land of opportunity, is bloated, in debt, sick, scared, and dying. If this was suddenly the state of a good friend or family member, you’d sit up and pay attention. You’d leap into action. You’d want to get to the bottom of what was causing the distress. What would you do? You might take that person to a doctor and god willing, it would be a very good doctor, one who could put two and two together and solve the mystery; see to the heart of the problem and say…I’ve got it.”

He is smiling broadly, eyebrows raised, “I don’t know how you do it but you are a magician with the words. You really make us sound impressive. I like it very much.” 

He jumps up from his chair and goes to his desk, “I have something for you, too. He hands me a large, white envelope and a small white box. I open them like I’m opening Christmas presents. He sits on the edge of his chair. I pull out two glossy portraits: one of me and one of him.

“That’s why he gets paid the big bucks,” H says playfully.

They are beautiful portraits. I look every inch the priestess and he looks to me like timeless mystic. My heart soars. I turn my attention to the white box. It contains business cards—thick stock, letterpressed.

I turn it over in my hands, “We look very expensive. I’m so excited!”

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to change the world—it’s actually happening.”

He smiles, “We have a lot of work to do.”

*****

“I need you to write a letter to George Soros…”

He dictates and I work my magic to make it a compelling email. Later in the week he asks me to write to a Belgian financier called Bernard Lietaer, and then to Damien Hirst, the artist. This has always been our arrangement—self-mastery instruction for writing. We are still true to the original impulse that brought us together.

I set up meetings for us around New York City with business contacts from my advertising days. We lunch with an influential pitch consultant who is impressed but baffled by H. We meet with the president of a prestigious advertising agency. She cries when H shows her how advertising sucks the life, the imagination, out of the planet’s most creative people. We are moving through the city speaking truth to power.

One day I bring my friend and former client, Keith, to see H in his office. Keith is the head of the brand at Facebook. H requested to meet Keith because he’s interested in Facebook’s plans for a marketplace and currency.

The day of the meeting, Keith and I travel uptown. On the way I begin to worry that H’s hyper-masculine directness, bordering on rudeness, will put off Keith who is sweet, effeminate, diplomatic. I worry H might be overbearing or rude. I start to second-guess my decision to bring them together. I realize that in three years I’ve never sat in this office with anyone other than H. It’s always been just the two of us.

But, the H we meet with that day is not one I’ve ever seen. He is grandmotherly—offering us tea that he makes in the small kitchenette and pours from a tea set. I suddenly realize that each meeting we’ve taken he’s been able to shape shift into exactly the character he needs to be. Keith is completely charmed and opens up about details of Facebook’s strategy I haven’t heard him discuss before. H is prophetic; sharing some of his big visions about where the culture is headed.

Afterwards, as Keith and I walk down Madison Avenue, we’re both charged up. Keith is a feeler like me so I am gratified when he says, “You know that scene in The Matrix where Neo meets the old woman with the cigarette in her kitchen?.”

“Yes, the Oracle.”

“That’s him! Did that even happen? Does he even exist outside that office on Madison Avenue?” Keith is incredulous.

“Sometimes, I wonder that, myself.” I am relieved and grateful to not be alone in my fantasy space, even if just temporarily.

***********

H and I are meeting to review our work. All of these meetings and nothing has turned into a paying job. There are no clients, yet.

“Believe. You have to see it. The difference between fantasy and imagination is belief. Fantasy is an imaginary image you make but you don’t really believe it and so it remains a fantasy. As soon as you believe it, you activate it and it happens.”

“Isn’t a fantasy a distraction?”

“Don’t think of fantasies as a bad thing. They contain a grain of truth, something that might be good to look at and understand. Look at your fantasies from the past. See who you are becoming. Now, be aware of your fantasies in this moment. If you believe them, they happen. It’s simple. You have to believe we already have more clients than we can handle. Tell me what you believe…”

“Sometimes, I believe I’m becoming a High Priestess. But, I don’t even know what that means—what that job entails in these times.”

He becomes frustrated, “This is the problem with you—you pick the wrong things to focus on. You must get rid of this nostalgia for times when things were more…romantic. This is a very practical time, actually. What happened to your vision of becoming a successful business woman? A writer? A consultant? Since I’ve known you, you’ve had many fantasies about who you can become, you just have trouble sustaining them.”

That stings. We both sit in the silence of what he’s said until the atmosphere softens.

“When you put your mind to something, you are unstoppable. How is the writing going—your book? You believe in the book, right? Is it any good?”

“Yes. I think it’s great, actually.” I feel a sense of delicious anticipation to share it with him; to show him how I’ve captured our love and honored him. Swept up in enthusiasm, I say, “If it reaches just one person, if it changes things for one person it will have been worth it.”

“One person? Why limit yourself like this. Believe you will become great. You should say to yourself every day that it will reach millions of people.”

Caught once again thinking small—I feel ashamed.

“You have to translate the words of God into the voice of the times. For me, ancient texts do it. Some people find them obtuse, but I get them. I can translate them into this…these sessions. You can translate all of this into something people want to read.”

It’s been a while since we’ve been together physically. Our focus on business has allowed us to remain in the intimacy of our connection without acting on it. But, as the session begins to draw to a close I feel him stalling; moving into that hypnotic state; conjuring a space of desire. I am still processing his reprimands and cannot meet him there. I don’t want it, but I want him to want me. I am conflicted.

“What’s happening here?” He indicates my lower belly.

“I feel tight, constricted.”

“Yes. You need to learn to walk out of this tight little room within and into a room where there are no limitations, no sense of labels. No Schuyler. No background in Kentucky. No worries. No roles. No marital status…You need to feel relief. Feel the sensation of relief here. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

As he speaks, I feel warmth arise in my lower body. I feel each words as it lands in me, especially the word, Relief. I nod my head slowly and with some effort. It’s difficult to move. Then, I do and it break the spell…

“I don’t want to go there today.”

“Good,” he says it like he agrees; like I’ve passed a test.

But, I wonder.

*******

H asks me to find us an assistant for the business. We need someone trustworthy who can help us with administrative tasks. I immediately think of Alice who has been wanting a change of pace. H likes the sound of her and has me set up an interview. 

The day of the meeting, I wait eagerly for word from one or the other of them about how it went. Eventually, I call Alice.

“Well, how did it go?”

She pauses and then shocks me with her assessment, “Schuyler…he was a complete asshole. He hates women.”

Even for Alice, this is pretty blunt.

*********

I’ve begun to question everything—it’s like the lights are finally coming on. When I see H next I ask some questions I’ve been pondering for years.

“What is this path we’re on? What are we a part of?”

He thinks about how to answer. The question has caught him off guard. 

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a path in the sense that there’s a group of people all headed to the same destination to meet up and do something there…it’s the path for individual people who don’t need a guru.”

“But, what ‘religion’ is it connected to?”

“It’s not a religious path. It’s to take all of the blocks and obstructions away so man can strip back to his original self—his imagination—and start again from there. Start building from there as…God’s work. Yes, it’s man in the image of his Creator.

The books you read, and even that book you are writing,” he gestures to the journal sitting next to me, “are written by men and women, but God writing through men and women. God is writing through you. People say God wrote the Bible, but it was men who wrote the Bible. Your book—someone will be holding it in their hands 150 years from now and say, ‘Thank God for that Schuyler Brown. Now, I understand so much.’”

He is evasive, reluctant to speak, I press for more, “Where does it come from?”

He says in a clear and resonant voice, “From God who is making me speak right now, and who is in the words you write.” I know this is Truth. I can feel it.

“But where does the initiation come from? I want to know the lineage I am a part of.”

“The initiation simply helps one find their way…in that sense, it’s like a path. It helps us find our way back to our natural path…from lifetime to lifetime.”

“Shamash?” The name comes out of me like an accusation. I still feel like he’s not telling me something. Why would he be hiding?

“Where did you hear this name?”

“Gurdjieff talks about Ashieta Shiemash and then I saw at the Brooklyn Museum a small statue of Shamash from Sumerian times—seemed too close to be a coincidence. He was the Sun God.”

H nods knowingly. Why does it always come back to Sumer for us?

“It’s nothing more than the original path for becoming. Gurdjieff called it the path of the sly man. That’s as good an answer as I can give you.”

At the end of the meeting I notice that H looks tired—exhausted, actually. I feel concern and it occurs to me to ask a question I’ve never thought to ask him in these years we’ve known each other: Are you ok? There is something in our wrapping up that feels…sad. I assume it is my own feeling when it occurs to me he might miss me when I go the way I miss him. 

I start to ask the question but think better of it. I know he wouldn’t accept my concern. I close my mouth. But, nothing escapes his notice. He asks, “Was there something else you wanted to say?”

Awkwardly I venture, “Do you ever feel…not good?”

He answers honestly–as he has answered every question I ever found the courage to ask, “Sometimes I am having a hard time sorting out the visions and messages… I can feel lonely while I work out what I have to do…No one can help me do that and it can be lonely. People don’t understand that knowledge is painful and comes with great responsibility. But, you know, I don’t mind that loneliness. It’s not not-good.”

Then he looks at me fondly and says, “Thank you for asking me that.”

“I moved out of my apartment with the wife and kids. I have my own space now. It’s a small one-bedroom with nice views. It’s actually…great. I love the quiet. For the first time in a long time, I can read when I want, eat when I want. I can do my studies, apply myself. It’s like being a monk.”

I am surprised to hear this and sense that he’s been through something difficult. For a minute I wonder if it had to do with me. I ask, “Is this about…us?”

“Not exactly.”

Then something else occurs to me, “Have you done this before?” 

“Only once. But, it didn’t mean much. It wasn’t even…fun.”

On the way home I sit on the subway and one word is rattling around in my consciousness. It is hitting the same flat note the other comments I’ve chosen to ignore hit—a clunker, something out of tune… 

Fun. 

Fun? Is that what this has been for him? The word unleashes all that I’ve been suppressing. I can no longer ignore the signs. We are living in two different stories. I look for a way to bring them to a shared conclusion.

***********

I’m standing in a toy store in the West Village looking for a gift for my nephew. I have the baby with me. Toy stores have become a place of wonder for us. She loves the colors and friendly faces. And I look forward to every stage with her…costumes, crayons, legos, board games, puzzles…everything I loved as a child. I wonder if they will captivate her, too.

I am holding a box containing a butterfly garden kit—Witness the life cycle of butterflies in your own home! You send away for caterpillars, feed them, watch them become chrysalides, and eventually, emerge as butterflies. I am considering whether this is something he would enjoy when someone walks up behind me…It’s Soraya.

We greet each other warmly. She explains that she’s also looking for a gift—for her godson. She’s holding a rubber snake. She plays with my daughter in the stroller for a moment while we catch up and then she asks me how I’ve been.

I find that I can’t lie to her. Her dark eyes sparkle with clarity. I sense she’s shown up for a reason. The coincidence is just too much.

“I’m alright. There have been a lot of transitions in my life since we last saw each other.”

She smiles and gestures to the baby who is chewing on a rubber giraffe, “One of the greatest transitions for a woman—motherhood.”

“Yes,” it feels wonderful to have that acknowledged. “Motherhood. And other changes…the marriage…my own spiritual growth…” tears come to my eyes unexpectedly. I realize I haven’t cried in a long time. H is always discouraging it. Something about Soraya seems to encourage it. She sees what’s happening and takes my hand. We stand there silently for a moment while hot tears roll down my cheeks.

“It’s been hard,” I say quietly as if I need to explain.

She nods, “What’s been the hardest part?”

I close my eyes to find the answer…”Not knowing what to do. Not knowing if I’m doing it right or wrong. As a mother…in my work…as a woman…a wife…I just wish someone would give me the answers.”

She listens, “Sounds like you feel alone.” I hadn’t realized it until she says it. That’s what the tears are. I feel desperately alone and scared of doing the wrong thing.

“You know…I could say something like, ‘Of course, you’re not alone,’ It would be true,” she smiles into my eyes looking for affirmation. I nod…"but I know that part couldn’t hear it. I want that part to know I just get it. I get that you feel alone. And I know what that’s like. What feels more important right now is to tell you you can’t get it wrong. Not you—not as sincere as you are. If you’re in your heart—and I know you are—there is no right and wrong…”

Her words are making a deep impression, “No right or wrong?”

“Nope. Only closer and farther from The Truth…capital T. And you know the only way to know?”

“Trial and error,” I venture recognizing the resonance of another time and place with H.

“Trial and error is the best way.”

We stand there and I heave a sigh of relief. Something very heavy that I didn’t even know I was carrying has lifted.

“Have you ever heard that saying, If you want to know if you can trust someone…trust them?” I nod, “It’s the same with yourself. The only way to know if you can trust yourself is to trust yourself. Over and over. Sure, you’ll make mistakes. But, you’ll start to get the hang of it. And then you’ll begin to see that there is something even bigger you can trust. You have to try.”

What she is referencing—the something bigger I can trust—is with us right now. I feel it. We are held by it, like being in the arms of a Great Mother. Suddenly, I feel like the infant in the stroller in the toy store. I glance at my daughter who is chewing and cooing contentedly.

Soraya nods to the butterfly box I am still holding, “Witness the lifecycles of a woman…”

I laugh, “I wish I felt more like a butterfly.”

“Be patient. Maybe you’re in here,” she points to the image of the pupa. Or maybe it’s more like this…?” She holds up the snake with an impish grin, “The old skin just falls away. It no longer fits and you just slither right out of it.” She shimmies her body; becoming a snake.

I hug her and thank her for the wisdom. We part and I feel noticeably less alone. When I finally get to the register to pay for my items, I find the snake at the bottom of my basket.

*************

That night, I dream:

I’m in a classroom and H is at the chalkboard teaching. He’s writing with his right hand, and erasing with the left hand as he goes. We are frantically taking notes before it all disappears.

The class comes to an end and the other students are clearing out. I hang back, waiting for him. I stand with my hand on a globe. He says to me, “Pick any place. I’ll take you there.” I pick a place close to where we are in New York. He scoffs and mocks me to a few other students, “I promise her anywhere in the world and she picks New Jersey? Dream bigger! Argentina, Madagascar, anything…” I play with the globe, embarrassed. “He’s right, I am thinking too small. That’s my problem.”

Now, we are alone. I approach him, wanting to clear the air, to feel good again in our relationship. I want to be honest with each other. I am nervous and tentative. I say, “Do you have a minute?” He is annoyed by my timidity, “Of course. Why do you have to ask that? Just speak.” 

But, I can’t. I don’t have a voice. The silence angers him and he launches into me: “Your spirit is great. You could have been great, but not in that body. Your spirit in someone else’s body could have been something by now. But you—Schuyler—have too many hang-ups and restrictions.” 

He turns and leaves me there. My self-esteem is completely deflated. 

*****

One evening before sunset, I bring the baby down to the playground in the park across the street. I run into my friend from dancing—the old friend. He’s walking his bicycle along the sidewalk. I recognize his body’s movement before I even see his face. My heart leaps—nerves. I don’t have time to decide whether or not to speak to him…he’s spotted me and is smiling ear-to-ear. His face is clear and bright.

I walk my daughter towards him and he gestures at her with reverence, “She’s beautiful. It’s so good to see you as a mother.”

I feel my face flush. We’ve had some steamy dances and yet, revealing this part of myself to him feels extremely intimate. My daughter likes him immediately. He kneels, picks a small daisy from the landscaping and hands it to her. She is charmed.

I look at the bike he’s pushing, “Oh…yeah. I got a flat. I was on my way to work.”

“Where do you work?”

“At the museum. It’s just a temporary thing, but it pays the bills…” We both realize we won’t have much time. The baby will want to move on and he has to get to work. I start to say goodbye and move on. He stops me, “I don’t think it’s a coincidence our meeting like this. I’ve been wanting to run into you. I just want you to know…you make a big impression on people…on me.”

He is holding me with his gaze, “That’s so sweet of you to say…”

“I’m not trying to be sweet. I want you to recognize your power. I’m here to reflect it back to you.” He searches for the feeling, “When you leave the room, people wonder where you went. And when we’re not at dancing, I wonder where you are…”

It’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received. I feel like I can receive it. I understand intuitively that he’s not asking me for anything. He is offering, giving me a gift.

“I hope that doesn’t sound creepy…It’s sincere.”

“What do you know,” I joke, “Another sincere person in Brooklyn.”

He laughs, “Yeah…two of a kind.”

“My new old friend.”

I know I’ll be seeing more of him when the time is right.

*****

The next day, H and I are texting as usual, looking for a time to meet. I am sick with dread. I reach out to Hannah. In this state of distress, I text her, “I don’t know what to do. I’m at the end of my rope. It has to stop.” 

But, I’ve accidentally sent the text to H. He responds immediately, “I agree.” 

I call him and we talk briefly. How does this conversation go? The one where I am breaking up with him? It seems ludicrous but also somehow…right. We decide to meet the next day.

**********

Sitting there in his office, it’s already like everything has changed. I can feel the end of our story drawing near.

“I asked for a dream to resolve things finally between us. To resolve what our future is…” H is speaking with confidence, but he’s aloof…no longer connected.

“Oh? Did you receive one?” 

He nods, “In the dream I am told that she—you—already had the dream with the answer. It was the dream of the dinner for me, the one with the wedding dress. It’s not meant to be. Not in this time. We won’t work together, but we will continue to be friends and have an exchange of Ideas. You won’t be my girlfriend. It will be an affair of ideas. And I do feel like that. Something about you brings my ideas to life.”

I feel my heart breaking. There is something cold now about him. I am no longer allowed into the intimate place within him…was I ever?

“I think we can’t see each other for a while. I’ll be giving up this place. I can’t afford it.”

I look around the small room—so familiar to me now. I have every detail of it memorized. More has happened in here than in any room of my life. I’ve become a different person in here. The woman who first walked through that door nearly three years ago has disappeared. I was a maiden then, not yet a mother. I was married. I was working in advertising. I was timid. I had never heard of the divine feminine or masculine.

“I was also shown that what happened before,” he is referring to the affair, “released some energy in you that needed to be released. I helped with that, but it’s done. What’s past is past.”

I know this matter-of-fact H. There is no arguing with him. Maybe he senses that he’s being a little too stiff. He asks me conversationally how I’ve been. I tell him about a thought I’ve had to move upstate. I tell him about some friends who are buying a bunch of cabins on land there. I feel like it might be a good next step for me and my daughter, a way for Paul and me to have some space.

He laughs, “Oh, that is so you. You always get to this point where you want to live in community.” The comment mystifies me…the way he says it immediately makes me think he’s referring to a pattern of multiple lifetimes. I think of Katherine going to live at the Prieuré. I think I do always want to live in community. It feels like a deep feminine longing…maybe a human one.

He asks me about the book and I tell him it’s nearly done…at least the first draft. He wants to read it. I offer to send it when I get home. It feels a fitting close to this chapter, this story we’ve been in.

“People read what you write and they can’t believe it. You have a real gift. You do not write normally. You will be very successful on your own. Without my help. Without anyone’s help.”

I smile. His encouragement has always meant the world to me. In spite of all that’s happened, or because of it…no one has ever known me better.

“Write the book” he says. 

This is the last time I see H in this office. He promises to call me when he’s settled in the new apartment and seeing clients again. We put our work on hold, too. I leave his office without a lover and without my work.

********

For the first few months I feel lost without him. I miss our fantasy. I miss our meetings. I miss the magic, the consultancy we were building, the world we were imagining together, the deep friendship. When situations arise that I would have shared with him, I imagine what he would have said. I remember what he said to me once, “I’m in your consciousness.” I feel that’s true.

Most fascinating and humbling is the fact that my emotions seem to be returning—in full force. It’s as if every emotion I suppressed, controlled, and “mastered” in those three years with H is finding a channel to express itself. I cry uncontrollably at stupid moments. I feel enraged at minor irritations. I feel insane but in a different way from before. This time I am not in the grips of a mysterious process or under a guru’s wing; I have surrendered to myself. These are my emotions, my tears, laughter, frustration. This is me trusting my own healing process. It’s messy and frankly, unstoppable. I couldn’t manage it if I tried. After three years of extreme restraint, it feels pretty good to just let go.

I throw myself into my writing; digging through the journals of these three years. I look for the beauty and the wisdom and translate it all into a story of spiritual illumination. I am visited by a Sufi master who hands me the structure for writing our story. After six weeks I have 300 pages of “The Gospel of I AM.” I write with an urgency and certainty I’ve never known before. I write it for H and for countless others I hope will be opened up and touched by his magical words and our love. It is a labor of love, but it is also driven by a spiritual mania—a need to understand what’s happened to me. And maybe a need to hold on to that fantasy. I can’t quite let go of the love story. I can’t quite see it all clearly.

I am mourning. I am vulnerable. But, I am not destroyed. I am changed and changing. Integrating. Being a mother is the greatest gift through this time. I cannot lose myself in a tidal wave. I have to be there for her. So, I stay. I stay present and grounded to the degree I can, for her. I feel profound gratitude for her during this time.

The day I finish the manuscript I’m ecstatic and proud beyond words. I print all three hundred pages and stack them carefully on my desk just because I need to feel it. I need an artifact, a book, an actual manuscript! I photograph it—the title page featured—and send the photo to H. This is the first time I’ve reached out in months. He responds immediately with encouragement. He seems thrilled. He writes that he would love to read it. That night I send him the digital file.

A few days later, he writes that he’d like to see me. He invites me to come to his new apartment/office uptown. The day arrives and I am in anticipation of his reception. I can’t wait to hear what he thought of the book. I expect to be greeted with a celebration. Instead, I find him dark.

“It wasn’t at all what I expected. No one can ever see this book.”

My heart sinks, “But, why not?”

“It’s too personal. Way too personal. You’ve transcribed your journal. This is not meant to be published. This is private, for you. Put it in your bottom drawer and never pull it out again. Trust me.”

I protest, “But real writers are personal, honest, and transparent. I don’t mind sharing my experience if it can speak to others’ hearts. Jung published his spiritual journey, his deepest thoughts. And Katherine, she…she never got to write as honestly as she wanted.” 

He looks at me with steely eyes, “Jung had a career and a long, rich life before he published such things. Jung was…Jung. And Katherine wrote short stories, poems.” 

“But she wanted to be writing something else,”

“Something like what you’ve written?”

“Maybe!” But, my protest is feeble in the face of his determination. My confidence falters. I become small, afraid. I feel I have no choice but to promise him I’ll do as he says. In that moment I give him more than my love and my will, I sacrifice my voice to him. I give him power over our story and I think of that saying: He who controls the past controls the future. It would be years before I could write again.

I leave after that without a goodbye. When I get home, I do exactly as he’d commanded—as if in a trance. I put the manuscript in the bottom drawer of my dresser. It will sit there for a decade—safe, but hidden from the world. Another spell he’d cast and I’d have to break.

~~~~~