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An Extraordinary Love

The Beginning

By R S NyborPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 8 min read
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My Path

My heroine as a kid was Harriet the Spy. Reading the book by Louise Fitzhugh as a 10-year-old, I pictured Harriet wandering around her city, ignoring life on the surface, her schoolwork and her classmates. She could detect more life underneath basic day to day activity; she could sense the moving parts and vibration of existence hidden from her peers who worried about completing their homework and where to sit at lunch. I wanted to be her, free to roam around, inspired to look where others didn’t see and alert enough to understand the meaning of the crack in the sidewalk – evidence of life, the effort of a dandelion claiming it’s place in the landscape of existence by pushing apart the broken pieces of cement. Considering my younger self, I am not sure what portion of that daydream came from my interpretation of Harriet’s feeling that she didn’t belong that matched my own or what portion came from my own personal desire to live a life bigger than the messages constantly thrown at me to follow the rules and the life path handed to me by my elders. I constantly yearned for an option to find my own path, live my own life and see what I could discover hidden in the hazy cement corners of my own mind.

Fifty odd years later my life’s desire remains to find my own path, believing there is so much more to this physical existence than a perfectly trimmed front yard and neatly folded laundry, my adult version of homework. I have learned to enjoy the parts of me that haven’t recovered from perfectionism. I like the towels hanging over the stove handle to line up perfectly and the rug by the front door to match up with the lines of the grouted tile in my entry way. These items seem to be my tether to bounce from. I bounce out of my house with my carpet threads all vacuumed the same way into a world where heavy emotion and fear seem to be the norm, steering everyone’s drive to work and then back home only to be exhausted at the end of the day. From the safety of my tether, I imagine I’m like Harriet and search the corners of existence for a deeper meaning of life, finding that the common denominator past the veil of anxiety and societal programing is the desperate need to be seen and loved just as we are. The ultimate search for me has become to uncover and accept who I really am, to allow myself the experiences that make me feel fully alive without guilt or shame and be able to look at myself in the mirror, being 100% honest with myself and be accepted and loved by the eyes looking back at me. Find an extraordinary life…don’t settle for less than what my 10-year-old self knew: the vibration of living flows beneath the surface. It is the blood pulsing beneath the skin, alive with joy knowing that passing through the same veins would be a slightly different journey each time; it is the rain balanced just on the edge of the clouds holding its breath in anticipation of the fall. So, I straighten my yellow towels hanging from the stove handle, inspect my counter for crumbs, slide on a new layer of lipstick and gently close my front door, tethered to my illusion of security and walk into the world on my own detective mission for meaning beyond the norms, sincere connection and intimate conversations with life and others so that I can feel the pulse of being alive and claim my peace in existence. I invite you to join me. I’ll share my pain and my joy as I search for my truth and get strong enough to say it out loud and if some part my musings and interpretations of life hold your hand as you drive to work, then maybe each of will know we are not alone.

I’m dropping us right in the middle of a story, where looking back, I can see the zig zag journey of lessons that brought me to this beginning that’s not really a beginning, the vision of life and love in my mind teasing me forward as I stumble on a blurry, rocky path. It is the slow, crystalizing of a daydream. I feel like I am stirring a pot of sugar, butter and cream. I must be vigilant in my mixing, never take my eyes off my willingness to be open and honest or my creation will harden and burn, and I will have lost everything and be left with only hard, dark, bitter regret and forced back to a ridged life of shame and punishment.

I believe in a life of adventures and a lot of love. I don’t think I am meant to do just one thing or love just one person in my lifetime, I believe in more, starting with love. There are many types of love and much more to relationships, love, intimacy, sex and family than I have been taught, and I intend to challenge the limits of Puritan beliefs to unearth for myself what is hidden underneath the attempt to control women and their expansion, their caring, open nature to find the strength that loving can bring me. First of all, I have a daydream of a boyfriend, whose kiss would ground me to the present moment, whose eyes I could get lost in connecting with and whose touch would send sparks of electricity singing under my skin. I would love to wake up to his cute sleepy face, tell him my secrets and lay in his arms as he pulls me in close, melting me until I can’t tell where he ends, and I begin. I want a lifestyle partner that I love, whose hand when I hold makes me feel like I’m home, who I want to share adventures with, the before anticipation and after remembering, and who makes me laugh like no one ever has. There is Samantha, she is real and strong and yet soft, who ignites in me a desire to protect, hold and please. Her softness reminds me to be soft, her smile relaxes the corners of my eyes. I long to wrap my arms around her and protect that soft smile as she sleeps. She brings a sense of balance and calm to the part of me that always feels like I need to be tough and strong. Her husband is Ray, and he watches over us, takes care of us as we play. He lets us have our girl time, which is good, because I don’t like being their Unicorn. There is Guinn with his patient, half crooked grin, ever-present nurturing tendencies who loves humans and conversations about the search for meaning. I love talking with him and his wife, sitting on their couch, pot smoke in the air, seeing his long black dreads wound up on his head looking like a guru from the lost mountains, watching him hold her hand in both of his large ones. We talk about sex, race, pleasure and if changing ourselves can really make a difference in the world. They are all part of me, and yet at the same time I am me, a single, middle aged, white woman loving my freedom and individuality, free from the stigma of couple privilege. I float through my days feeling wonderfully excited about adventures and fun, questions and answers, late nights curled up with one of my loves binging Outlander and parties with a vodka tonic in hand meeting people and dancing to the latest EDM mix until the bouncer kicks us out shaking his head because we are the oldest people left in the room. I want to sit on the porch in the summer twilight and talk about letting go of the stories that define us to find the bridge to other side of fear. I want to feel the energy of the Universe and know we are all connected. I am sifting through the crust of society norms and religious teachings, searching for what makes me feel whole, seen, alive and loved. Yet sometimes I cry at night, tears pour out as I try to curl up in a big comfy chair on my back patio finding no comfort in the worry that I am doing it all wrong and will be forever stuck in my story of always being alone, feeling like a burden to the world, not truly belonging anywhere.

I think of my birth family; I feel so disconnected from them. If they knew what I really thought, my parents would shake their heads and pray for me even harder, believing that I will miss out on my eternal happiness with them in the Celestial Kingdom. My sisters, well one would scoff and tell me that I am going to get what I deserve and the other would stare at me with wide eyes, try to accept my stories, all the while biting her lip not knowing what to say. How could I ever share my idea that somewhere in authenticity is power and that letting go gives you the ability to really feel alive? My children, a few would say whatever makes you happy mom and some would shake their head and walk away disgusted at my sexuality and lack of domestication that I no longer want to cook dinner for everyone and then happily clean the kitchen. So, it is you and I. Or maybe it is just me, which that is fine. I will process the journey, learn the lessons from my lovers, turn my wounds into wisdom and regardless of the outcome, I won’t live with regret of abandoning my own sense of direction and all along the way, underneath the pulse of the city and at the edge of the dark, full rain clouds, I will watchfully stir and blend my caramel and live an extraordinary love.

love
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About the Creator

R S Nybor

Mountain loving yogi, writing with the belief that wounds can turn to wisdom. Dreaming that we all end up holding hands, safe in our differences, connected by our love for life as we lean into our humanity, as messy as it is.

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