An Unspoken Invitation

I listen for
an unspoken invitation.
An opening or a need
that I can fill.
Arms or warmth,
or a twitch at the corners of your mouth.

I am always surprised
when you reveal that
you thought of me
when we were apart.
I warm to know
you thought of a question
you wanted to ask me,
even though you can't remember it now.

Sometimes I report having
thought of someone else in her absence -
or I simply call her or send an email.
This takes faith
that I'm not intruding,
faith that I offer something of value.
Faith that I can bring attention
and kindness to you,
and such wisdom as I've painfully won,
or at least the perspective
that comes from not being beset
by your problems.
Having this perspective
brings me relief from my own funk
at the same time as it is a gift.
I have faith in this
else I wouldn't dare try.

I have proven toxic in the past,
but I have reformed
sometimes.
Sometimes I can realize how I appear
self-centered and uncaring.
And sometimes I can be kind and caring.
No one I know is all of a piece,
although we try to stay in our best selves.
We slip and fall,
and get up, and stumble,
and each time we get up again
we grow stronger,
better,
kinder,
more whole,
more peaceful,
more ourselves,
and more quick to recover from our lapses.
We journey with hope,
always arriving.

Finding a Kindred Spirit

Once I came up to a couple who belonged to my church, and announced that they were my kind of people. They lit up, and we became friends. Years later, they told me that my statement had drawn them to me. What I hadn't said at the time was that what I had actually noticed about them was that they were, like me, quite short. This shared trait was enough for me to create some fellow feeling. They had, however, taken my comment as referring to their character or interests or spirituality, at any rate, as something deeper than their actual height.

I have found that a similarity in height is helpful in a romantic situation, but it can't be the only thing we share. I tried that once or twice, and it doesn't work.

For a good relationship of any kind, one needs a kindred spirit. We must share some values and some interests. Complete identity of these characteristics isn't required, but some overlap is needed to make a relationship work.

When I was trying to be straight, I somehow acquired an extremely tall boyfriend who belonged to my church. We shared a belief in God and the commandments, so unmarried sex was not an option. Our intellectual interests were quite different, and our musical tastes intersected only at the Carpenters. But we kissed and cuddled, and suited each other well enough until I moved away for law school.

Then I sought friends among classmates and fellow congregants, and started to come out as a lesbian. But did I ever find a kindred spirit, a soul mate? I kept thinking I had found someone who was kin enough, but sooner or later it fell apart. Sarah lasted the longest.

I may not have the gift of having or being a kindred spirit. So nowadays I cultivate whatever kind of relationship develops with my friends. If I ask of no one what she doesn't have to give, maybe she won't ask me for what I don't have to give, and we can enjoy each other for who we are.

Leaving Something Behind

Sarah left me behind when she retired. Her Oakland home had been where we were together, where we shared a double bed, where we played early music with our friends. Restaurants on Claremont Avenue were our playground. Fifteen years my senior, she retired when I was 50, but the earliest I could imagine retiring was at age 55. I did retire at 57, but that's another story.

As she later told me, she was then in survival mode. Still recovering from a knee injury, she had to find a home that she could afford, one that had no stairs and was convenient to public transportation (she doesn't drive).

She found herself a condo in Berkeley, but it was a studio with a twin bed instead of her spacious one-bedroom flat. So I couldn't spend the night at her place, although the early music group continued to meet in a public room in the building.

When she refused to visit me in San Francisco, I began to understand that our relationship had changed. I finally got the nerve to ask her how she characterized our relationship, and she said, friends - which confirmed my impression. It seems we had gradually, silently broken up.

I swallowed the bleak anger and hurt I felt in the interest of keeping her as a friend, and began to look around for a new lover. My next choice wasn't as good, but that's also another story.

Why didn't it occur to me to ask her what was happening at the time it was happening? Maybe because I hate arguments and raised voices. Maybe because I'd been presented with a lot of changes that were beyond my control when I was growing up. Objecting wasn't an option then, and it often seems beyond me now.