What If? A Literary Love Story…

I don’t know why finding what we need in life and then being happy with it is so hard. I think most of us want the same things: connection, acceptance, affection, and respect. Love. Like most of the single, straight women I know, I’m still waiting — but I’m no longer lying awake nights hoping. After seven years as a newly single person, most of it celibate as a nun, I’m learning the hard way that there is no lasting joy waiting just on the other side of grief. It’s just not that easy.

The essential question is this: is it better to be with someone who is fully committed to blindness and will never see our light, but is otherwise a very decent person? Or, should we treasure those fleeting moments with an imperfect and unreliable person who is captivated like a moth by our light — even though we know that moth is flighty and unreliable and will eventually lift off into the night, leaving us alone again? Well, I’m happy to report: there have been moments when I’ve gladly expressed my gratitude to the moth. I have even fallen in love with two of them.

Currently, I am single. So were Mother Theresa, Susan B. Anthony, and Coco Chanel. And I can’t forget my literary hero, Jane Austen, or the other Amazing Jane, Ms. Goodall, or any of the brilliant women who have been mostly single, creative powerhouses before me. So, I channel ‘The Janes’ and avoid thinking about men at all. I focus, instead, solely on my writing: I give it everything I have, and after a while, things start to happen. I’ve even been accused of “having an actual plan” for achieving success — but, in reality, I am simply getting unstuck. I’m learning to bloom all on my own, just like everybody else, because it’s what I’ve finally realized we're here to do.

In the past few years, I’ve worked hard at blossoming in all sorts of ways: I’m strong and fit, I’m a reliable dance partner, I can sometimes make people laugh, and I am a very good friend. I'm not irresistible, but I can be useful. And, because I have already failed, catastrophically, I am no longer afraid to try. It is a long, uncertain journey, but the first few steps do not feel strange or scary — they feel like the first new steps on a wide-open road. I’m not making a lot of money, but as my friend and fellow comic Charley Macorn once famously said, “In Missoula, you don’t ask people what they do, you ask them what dream they’re following.”

Through a writing workshop, I get to know several other Montana women writers and we begin meeting occasionally for sushi and hiking trips and book talks. It’s easy. Writers are so intuitive. We speak the same language — a verbal shorthand that only writers understand because we’re so good at filling in the blanks. One night my girlfriends take me out for my birthday, a fun, wine-fill night at Ciao Mambo. As we’re winding down the evening, Ruby pulls out a thin, squarish package wrapped in shiny paper. I think, at first, that it’s an album, a good, old-fashioned LP. Who knew that a mere few years after I gave mine to Goodwill, they’d be collector's items?

“It’s not much,” she yells across the noisy space. “Just a little something we thought maybe you could use.” I notice a furtive glance between Samantha and Margaret, sitting across the table.

I tear open the wrapping and smile in delight, even though it’s not an LP. “A new calendar for my office! Oh, I love Georgia O’Keefe!” Still smiling, I turn it over to look at the layout of each of the twelve months. “Hey, these are all the flower paintings that look like lady-parts.”

Ruby confesses, “Well. You know. We thought maybe you needed a subtle reminder that you’re still a woman, but, in a creative, artistic way. Isn’t it time to get yourself out there?” I don't disagree. And haven't I been telling myself that I'm not afraid?

Before I can come up with the gumption and a workable plan to try again, my friend Margaret decide to meet at Shakespeare and Company to hear a well-known author speak about his new book. I’d heard him speak once before, not long after moving to Montana. Unfortunately, earlier that afternoon, I had strained the muscles and ligaments in my left hip and buttock doing several hours of unwisely-vigorous yard work. For the first time in my life, I have sprained my ass.

I take a hot shower, hoping it will help, and then I begin to dress for the event. I have a sophisticated, book-reading outfit in mind, but when I’m browsing in my closet I come across a nicely fitted, cotton dress with deep pockets. The lovely, soft, spring-green of newly-mown hay — it’s a little faded and shorter than I usually wear, but it will be comfier on my sore derrière than the pair of dark skinny-jeans I've almost grown out of.

When we get to the event, twenty or so metal folding chairs are laid out in rows, with a gap down the middle. Ignoring them and gritting my teeth, I carefully shuffle over to the only comfortable perch in the bookstore — a single, padded, armchair. Ensconcing my painful left cheek, I lean back with a sigh. Margaret and I are chatting about the upcoming prose class we’re both planning to take when I feel a tap on my shoulder. The host of this evening’s event politely asks if he can borrow my chair for our guest speaker to use. They've decided to convert the event into a discussion-style format, in the manner of a fireside chat between two congenial colleagues.

“Of course,” I say. “Fine.” Wanting to be accommodating, I push the chair all the way up to the front of the venue, as both the male host and the male guest speaker trail along quietly behind me. Because I am quite tall, and because I forget about the slit in the back of my too-short dress, as I bend over the chair, I give them both quite a show all of the way up the narrow aisle. (But I learn this fact much later, after Margaret has a chance to clue me in.)

The talk is fun and engaging, and I forget about the nagging pain in my ass. Listening to their banter, I like this guest author, who is, at turns, humble, absurdly candid, and endearingly vulnerable. And, as it turns out, he also has a wonderful, dry sense of humor. Several times during the evening, the author and I make eye contact. I raise my hand, and when I ask a couple of questions, I appreciate the fact that he gives me his full attention. I like it when he talks about his dogs, and about the novel that he’s been working on for the whole of his adult life, and his appreciation for writers, and his love for the natural environment. I like so many things that he has to say. Earlier, I’d noticed his lean and lanky body leaning against the counter, chatting up the bookstore’s owner. Let’s just say, there is something in the air, even though I don’t know what it is, or how it came to be there:

“I just looked across the room, and there she was.”

“I just looked across the room, and he caught my eye.”

I’m not getting my hopes up. I am simply enjoying the liquid warmth of these feelings washing over me without attachment or expectation, like the Buddhists are always saying. I feel refreshed, and the opposite of invisible, or dead, even though most men in my particular dating pool would consider me past my sell-by date.

The discussion wraps up. Trying hard not to wobble like a penguin, I walk over to purchase a book — not the one our guest author had been speaking about tonight, but a collection of his earlier short stories. I’m always looking for new mentors, and one who is intimately familiar with this neck of the woods would be just dandy. Plus, it gives me another chance to say something perfectly appropriate yet completely captivating.

As I bring the book up for him to sign, he looks up at me and stares, open-mouthed — I mean, long enough for a quick little bird to start building a nest in there. He then makes a couple of awkward attempts to pay me a compliment. Equally awkward, because this kind of thing never happens to me, I half-heartedly thank him, in stumbling fashion. This literary hero is so visibly flustered that I have to remind him, twice, to please sign the book laid out on the table in front of him. Let’s just say that, on a warm summer night, in the middle of a crowded room, two strangers made significant eye contact, and I was briefly submerged in two, cool eyes the color of a glacial stream. Remarkable eyes.

I wait quietly while he signs Margaret’s book. Then, as I turn to leave, something compels me to turn back to him and say, “It was really nice to meet you,” in a way that lets him know I am not just being polite. What I fail to say is, “My friend and I are heading to the Redbird for a drink. When you’re finished here, you’re welcome to join us.” I did not say that — but I thought about it as we proceeded to make our way through the crowd to the exit.

As we walk out into the late evening light, Margaret turns to me, one eyebrow raised, “Look who was into you!”

There's no point in denying the truth, and, now, I’m flustered, too. My thoughts are whirling like the wind whipping down the Clark Fork and across the Higgins bridge — and I am not a good conversationalist for at least the next fifteen minutes. It’s okay, because Margaret is telling me wildly entertaining stories and I really want to get to know her better. I can say, truthfully, that at least eighty percent of me was listening.

There was an energy in the room that night. It was the warmth of the evening or the curve of my slightly-gimpy ass in my green dress, or the timber of my voice as I asked my thoughtful questions or the questions themselves. It was the unexpected spark between us as our eyes made contact. It was, even, that I reminded him of someone he once loved, although I have no way of knowing this. Also, as Margaret pointed out, he's kind of cute.

I fall deeper under the author's spell in the several days that follow, captivated by his love for nature, and animals, and the unimaginably real characters he creates on the pages in front of me. With very little effort, a myriad of factors leads me down an oxytocin-fueled imaginary path.

For example, what if I had said, “My friend and I are heading to the Redbird for a drink. When you’re finished here, you’re welcome to join us.” And what if he had answered, “I’d love to.”

And what if, twenty-five minutes later, he had walked hesitantly over the polished linoleum tiles, eased himself down next to me on the worn leather couch, shared my seared-scallop appetizer, and taken a small sip of my very good old vine zinfandel — his lips resting lightly on the glass in the exact spot my lips had just visited.

What if Margaret had, as agreed on in conspired whispers on our short walk over, excused herself to drive home all the way down the Bitterroot to Hamilton. And what if he and I had stayed on, discussing books and ideas, and art and kids, and road trips and dogs, late into the night.

What if I had been brave enough to say, softly, “It’s too late for you to drive all the way home now. All those deer on the roads can be dangerous. And I’ve got an extra room.”

And, what if he had said, “Well, I have someone watching my dogs for a few days, anyway. There’s no reason to rush home.”

Maybe the rest of the story would have followed, in a literary fashion, something like this:

It turns out that the world-famous author thinks my dog could use a little training — and he’s not the first — but at least he’s in a position to do something about it. He’s quite good at training dogs, and dogs seem to love him. After observing the very-satisfying results, I ask him to teach me the ropes, and he does.

I ask him to read my writing and he does. He asks me to read his novel and I say I am honored. He points out that Missoula is hours away — he worries about me driving those roads in winter. I point out that the little square of sunshine in his shady patch of woods would make a perfect kitchen garden. Maybe not tomatoes or eggplant this far north, but the rest: kale and root veggies and a couple of fruit trees. Raspberries, even. I have always wanted to live in a cabin in the woods, and winter is the best time for writing, for both of us. So, we do that. He completes his monumental novel, and, as agreed — since we are coming to know each other so well — I take the first crack at editing it. And we do not hate each other when I am finished.

In the spring, “I say, I’ve thought about training service dogs. Not because I know dogs all that well — but I know people. I know what they need.” After a little searching, we find some suitable canine candidates, and together, we do that, too. Each season has its reason for being, and the cycle feels complete.

Suddenly, it’s summertime again. It’s unnaturally warm, even in our little patch of forest. Further south and west, the forests are burning, filling the air with smoke which drifts with the prevailing winds. Our country is falling apart, rotting from the inside out, so it gives me some comfort to be living in a large, heavily-forested that lies along the Canadian border. I have a good friend in Alberta. Perhaps I’ll give her a call, soon — plan a one-way road trip for two, our pack of dogs in tow.

My brilliant writer/mentor/dog trainer/lover remains calm and centered. He tries to reassure me, even as he spends every summer hour working hard, setting us up to be completely self-sufficient, off-grid. Our garden is thriving. I’ve been working hard, too, making delicious things with herbs, and huckleberries, and chokecherries; finding early chanterelles to dry for wild mushroom risotto. In bow season, the author put up most of an elk. Together, we smoked a Columbia-caught sturgeon and feasted on that delicacy for weeks.

We spend our evenings dancing in the living room or talking on the back deck under the stars until the last ember winks out in the fire pit, and all is still and silent in the northwest woods.

Am I being greedy? Are all these delightful moments too much to ask of life? This scenario sounds perfectly plausible to me, and I'm a little sorry the evening didn't play out just this way. It is my own fault.

Truth be told, I did not seize the chance one warm July evening because I am not a flirty, confident, seducer of men. I am a very tall, somewhat introverted, bookish woman who, inexplicably, also loves to dance and wants badly to be loved. I have a great deal to give, but I only have it in me to give my heart once more, so I have to be so careful. Cautious. But, I’m an Aries — a rammer of things — so this conflict drives me a bit crazy. Can one be "a bit" crazy?

It is my belief that things happen when they happen and for reasons beyond our knowing, or, as Rumi reveals, “Only the hand of God can remove the burdens of your heart.” But I am not without hope. We are both writers in the smallish Montana writing community. There is a conference coming up in August. Maybe Margaret or Ruby or Samantha will go along with me. Maybe he will be there, and maybe we will just happen to bump into each other. I will wear a dress the color of newly mown hay, and the jade earrings I picked up in Jackson last spring. My favorite earrings.

He has a Facebook page — I’ve checked. Even though, as with most men, it’s not very active, and he could do a better job managing his social media, something I could easily help him with. But, I’m not one to criticize: It’s a terrible way to begin a new relationship. I will do everything right, this time.

And I know where he lives. I’m not saying I’m the stalking type — it’s just that it seems like a lovely place to go for a long weekend in early fall, and I don’t have any other urgent plans. After all, there’s nothing I enjoy more than a good road trip.

Windows are rolled down

Sun is rising high

Windows are rolled down

Feel that wind rushing by…

(Lyrics by Amos Lee)