I never saw myself as someone who would live in the past. Old people did that in the nursing home. Or after their spouse died. But not me, a young 30-40-50 something! I was excited about my future, moved forward with anticipation and reached for the brass ring whenever the carousel completed its revolution.
Now I know why those old people live in the past.
They’ve lost someone, or some thing they loved. And they want to go back.
That’s the crossroad where I find myself. That’s why I am stuck, desperate to break free of the past and move on.
The love I lost was my wife, Caryl. We met when I was in my mid-30s, and she was the brightest, kindest and smartest woman I’d ever met. She and I fell in love quickly (it was easy with her) and began a new life together in a new home in 1996.
Mom had died that year, and I was in no shape to do much of anything except the essentials: breathe, sip water, eat and work. Sleep wasn’t even easy. Rolling over in bed was even harder. The depression hit me harder than anything in my life, and for about 9 months, I went from the mountain top (meeting and loving Caryl) to the depths of the valley like a roller-coaster. Then, thankfully, the depression went away slowly. Caryl said “You just have to feel it. Embrace it. Don’t medicate it. It’s natural and human.” Good advice. She was right.
We adopted a child 4 years later and lived the American dream, gay version. A nice house, a fenced-in yard, two cars, two incomes, one adorable child.
It fell apart, not because anyone did anything wrong. It was like what Glennon Doyle refers to in her new book Love Warrior. “We (she and her husband Craig) talked about how you can forgive someone and, at the very same time, know that you cannot be with them anymore.” Caryl & I loved each other, in different ways, and it didn’t work.
We split, co-parented a wonderful and smart young lady and tried to keep our family unit intact, while living in neighboring states. Every birthday, holiday, anniversary and special occasion saw us all together, even though we were seeing other people.
After our precious baby suddenly turned into a woman (when did THAT happen?) I chose to completely separate from the trio. Second hardest thing I ever had to do. But it was clear to me that while the getting-along-and-never-fighting-and-great-example-you-gals-are life was good, I was kidding myself that we’d ever reconcile. So painfully I stepped away from my ex for good.
That brings me to the title… “You are Here. It’s like this now.”
I’d been living in the past for the last 10+ years. Dwelling on a time where I was happy and felt loved and whole. But doing so was toxic. It killed several relationships I had with other women who (rightfully) realized I wasn’t “all in.”
I felt stuck. I couldn’t bring myself into the now.
Until I went to a massive outdoor yoga orgy in Salt Lake City. This traveling show of yoga masters set up shop in Liberty Park in a wide-open field, surrounded by trees and nestled nearby the Wasatch Mountains.
Now I don’t want you to think for one minute that I actually DID any yoga. Na baby Na. And that’s not because I am too good for yoga or don’t need the exercise. I was just intimidated, so I sat on the sidelines and watched by good friend Belinda go through the healing motions on her little yoga mat, alongside about 700 other good-looking yogis.
The thing that snapped me out of my constant living in the past problem was said at that yoga meeting. The moderator, in a low and gentle yoga voice, was repeating some inspirational phrases and this one got my attention.
“You are Here. It’s like this now.”
I’ve been told that mindfulness is a big part of yoga, being present and centered. So while I wasn’t bending my body and stretching my sacroiliac, I was moved by those words.
“You are Here. It’s like this now.”
My mind started racing.
“I’m here. I’m not there. I don’t live in the bosom of my family in my home state. I’ve moved 2,000 miles away and I don’t know anyone. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere, at least for a while. And this is how it is. I don’t have a picket fence and a wedding ring and my little precious punkin running to greet me when I come home from work. But I do have her, in my heart, and no one can take that away.”
“You are Here. It’s like this now.”
Those words are still powerful, even as I type them. That phrase was the beginning of the letting go of the past, and helped turn my shoulders to the future once again.
Since I heard that earth-shattering exhortation last year, I lost my job and moved out of Salt Lake. I realize I can go anywhere. My daughter is in college. It’s ok that we may never live in the same state again. Lots of parents and kids do that. Now I’m embracing my uncertain future. Taking stock of my unrealized dreams, making my Bucket List and checking it twice, and planning for my future.
I want that phrase to be my first tattoo, the one I promised myself for my 50th birthday and still (some years later) have not gotten. Maybe tomorrow. Because I am here, and it’s like this now.
sc