The Cosmic Connection

A true story about soul mates reunited

On a lovely March evening, while e-mailing friends on my computer, an instant message suddenly grabbed my attention by declaring, “Mark has sent you an instant message—will you accept?” I had been receiving many inquiries to my “Wild Windsurfing Woman” singles ad online, but this one came from outside the confines of America Online. It had a more mysterious, other-world quality to it than the little chat-box interruptions that usually appeared on my computer screen.

          I accepted his invitation and we began a lively chat. “Boo!” was Mark’s way of saying hello. We bantered back and forth and made each other laugh, him with his written “giggle” and me with my smiley face and LOL for laughing out loud, which his messages had a way of instigating. We clicked online instantly, and it was fun reading his quips, counteracting with my own spunky comebacks, and my heart fluttered with each flirt.

          Mark and I began to sense a growing camaraderie unlike other cyber chats. We are both writers, teachers, and work helping others. We each had a strong belief in God. It was very refreshing to enjoy the humor and innate understanding between us.

          We wanted to meet in person after only a few, long written interactions. Excitement and anticipation engulfed me, unlike my previous blind dates. He would sweetly call me by name on the computer screen and I sensed his passion and tenderness, a preface to something profoundly personal that he was about to reveal to me, as I read my own name “Carolyn…” It was as if his voice was whispering to me from his pillow—his soul deep into mine.

          I felt him in his words, and I was drawn to him.

          He asked me to call him at work. In his online profile he had written his favorite quote, “The sun doesn’t shine on the same dog’s butt every day.”

          “What’s that supposed to mean?”

          He explained that not every day can be a fiesta. Then he described what his office looked like. I felt honored that in some sacred way he was describing himself, wanting me to know who he was. Even stranger, I felt like I already knew.

          There was a basic trust building, so I took a risk and e-mailed him a story I had written while traveling to Jamaica. I asked him to read it and return it with his impressions. I was offering him a part of my inner being, as my writing is an essential, integral part of me, and the vacation had been a spiritual transformation.

          I attached this to an e-mail and sent it to his office:

Slowin’ It Down in Jamaica

          I got away from my hectic work life by jetting to Jamaica, but it took some adjustment before I caught up to the slower pace. Travelers must expect to wait, I told myself. I am the most impatient person I know. Expect to wait, yes, but many tourists don’t. They expect immigration to grant them special entitlement, for customs to wave them quickly through, and airport transportation to issue an immediate thumb’s up. It was the waiting that initially helped me make a conscious decision to relax.

          Behind me, a well-to-do lady was complaining how slow the airport official was. I had now accustomed myself to this new country, rather than expecting, like many Americans, to have the country bend to our rigid rules of expediency.

          My itinerary paperwork was incomplete due to a last-minute booking, so I didn’t have a voucher for the shuttle bus to my hotel. I didn’t panic. I trusted and remained calm, explained that it was my understanding that a ride was included in my tour package. I waited some more, inside the air-conditioned terminal, longing to get outside and feel the Caribbean sun on my white winter cheeks.

          I was placed with a less-than-pleased van driver who probably wouldn’t get reimbursed. I made the effort to be especially friendly, tipped him well, and left his vehicle with the card he gave me, offering to be my personal escort during my stay. From the smile in his eyes, I knew that driving wasn’t all he was offering me. Flattered, I respectfully left his taxi. Welcome to Jamaica!

          I entered the open courtyard to the Montego Bay Inn. Impressed and utterly delighted, I was greeted by dazzling tropical plant life, mirrored by a turquoise swimming pool and an amazing ocean horizon. I was struck by the majestic beauty surrounding me, singing birds, and sweet floral scents on the warm breeze. I didn’t let the fact that my reservation wasn’t completed, and that the hotel was full, get me down.

          So, I waited.

          These lessons in patience, tolerance, and remaining serene under stress were building up my virtues. It was hot in my long black pants as I lay blissfully in the incredible tropical sunshine on a white plastic lounge chair by the pool. The Jamaican hospitality never wavered for a moment. I was given fruit punch then a cold 7-Up, they called other hotels for me, and then my reservation was finally confirmed. I had arrived at twelve thirty a visitor, but by four o’clock I had guest status. I had spent the afternoon eyes closed, lying back, listening to popular American music from huge speakers. In this beautiful place I just knew everything would be all right.

          My room had two double beds with brightly colored bedspreads, off-white ceramic floors, and white wicker furniture with thick floral printed cushions. Decoratively speaking, I had gone from January in Minnesota to a Jamaican July.

          Pleased with my place, I took a refreshing shower and settled in, and laid out my minimal possessions on the other bed. I was starving after only eating breakfast on the plane at seven thirty a.m. I ordered a BLT sandwich at the outdoor grill, facing the ocean. Even though it had mayo, it was the best BLT I’ve ever had.

          I checked out the shore of the beach, amused by baby crabs running for cover under craggy rocks, dodging the rushing water and me, a weary American transplant in cultural and climate assimilation mode. I had gone from a frosty dark morning in a freezing car, with ice crunching under my tennis shoes, shivering under the Airport Bus Depot’s heat lamp that wasn’t doing its job. After a mere four-hour plane trip, I was absorbing intense light and divine heat, lush green foliage, pink hibiscus, teal waters, and friendly native people adorned with bright-colored clothing and white smiles. Even though they were all working and busy, their luminescent eyes were full of contentment. I wanted some of that.

          I shed my bikini cover-up and eagerly plopped into the ocean barefoot, happily squeezing gray muck up between my impoverished toes. I went for a heavenly swim, tentatively wondering if jellyfish and stingrays like the warm shallows. The water was as luxurious as a bath. I crawled along the bottom until my hand brushed against something that felt like a porcupine. I backed up, suddenly aware of my ocean naiveté and headed back to shore to safely collect shells imbedded in rock crevices.

          The clean ocean air, the backdrop of reggae music, and the scent of the open grill were all pleasures to my awakening senses. The sun was setting shortly before five thirty, so I took a nap, nude in the air-conditioned hotel room. I awoke at seven p.m., precisely as the dinner buffet was commencing. The outdoor spread offered beef soup, rice with green peas, and Jamaican jerk pork—a delectable island entrée. My eyes lit up over ripe red tomatoes, cantaloupe, watermelon, and fresh pineapple—a gorgeous display of fresh fruits I hadn’t eaten since last summer.

          When traveling solo, it has always been dining alone that has made me feel the most conspicuous. In this family atmosphere, I seated myself with a group of people at a very large table, as if I were part of their family. Just as I felt secure blending in, they all got up and left me there, and I was self-consciously all alone at a very large table. A live reggae band with a xylophone played, hopelessly trying to rouse the hundred or so overfed, sluggish tourists.

          I was dreamily star-gazing, thrilled at how bright the sky was, and glad the moon was full. My spirit wanted to dance but my jet-lagged body knew it would have to be another night. My sun-burnt eyes were fighting my contact lenses and I wanted to wake up early to see the glorious sun. As a tribute to the timelessness of this paradise island, my watch stopped. I asked a waiter what time it was.

          He looked at his watch. “8:58.”

          “Oh,” I said, “it’s nine o’clock.”

          “No,” he corrected me gently, “Two minutes before nine.”

          He was right. I would have cheated myself out of two full minutes. Each moment matters here. I like it—it’s the happiest way to be.

          Back at my hotel room, music infiltrated the windows which were more like wooden shutters that you can easily open and close. There were no screens, no bugs, only a clean breeze. Some merchants had spread their wares on blankets across the dining lawn, so I bought my daughter Natalie a five-dollar beaded bracelet, not wanting to dicker on the price, only to have it work its way out of my pocket from the beach to my room. Nothing, however, could steal my joy from being here.

          I love Jamaica and I think Jamaica loves me too.

          Foreign travel stretches me—questions my lifestyle, challenges my views. I’m convinced that the Midwest is home to people who don’t like to venture out much.

          I was propositioned three times by adoring Jamaican security guards, to keep me company in my hotel room. Who, I joked, is going to protect me from them? They give new meaning to an all-inclusive resort. Before this trip was over, I even had two marriage proposals. I don’t think it was me personally that won their hearts as much as it was my (assumed wealthy) American whiteness, my vacation status, my singlehood, and the fact that I was wildly windsurfing in my bikini for days by myself, which meant I was a woman who had to be tamed.

          I was intrigued by the idea of shedding my former Minneapolis life and living on this incredible island, but I wasn’t nuts about matrimony. My admirers settled for a Kodak moment together and a promise of sending them a photo to an address they scribbled on hotel napkins. Regretfully, I went back home to the winter fog, where I once again merged with the every-day people, who treated me like the ordinary person I forgot I was.

*  *  *         

I was delighted when Mark’s thoughtful response arrived in my e-mail box the next day.

          Ah, Inspiration! by Mark        

          Inspiration is a wonderful rush…or, it is to me! And where has this “rush” come from? Is it the sunshine? The prospect of spring coming? My own spark of enthusiasm? Actually, the inspiration is from a memoir from a little lady, who took time to record some of her feelings and observations concerning a well-deserved vacation to Jamaica.

          I will assume that her writing was for her a time of reflection, a time of soul scrubbing, that only another writer would understand.  

          Her prose weaved ever so lightly and calmly about her travel difficulties as they popped up, doing their best to dampen her optimism—but Murphy had met his match this time. Patience triumphed–patiently. And due to her spiritual balance, she enjoyed herself immensely by not only adapting to a different culture, but also amalgamating with her environment. I found only one “flaw” in her monograph. The last statement, more specifically, the last seven words:

          “Regretfully, I went home to the winter fog where I once again merged with the everyday people, who treated me like the ordinary person I forgot I was.”

          These words were spoken after returning to her native Midwestern surroundings. On second thought, this is not a “flaw” but a notable example of humility and wisdom. As I personally have had the privilege to banter with this insightful lady, and in less than twenty-four hours will be graced by her presence.

          Every word ever written has a different “flavor” depending on who     takes the time to read it and listen to its voice. When this lady wrote about her trip, did she give thought to the flavor I am about to share back with her? In her humility, I think not.

          After being married for eighteen years and deciding that I could no longer wear a “mask” of happiness, I am separated and on the painful road to divorce. So maybe I am a little more sensitive to feelings, both my own and others. On the surface, it seems like a stretch between one person’s vacation reflections and another’s emotional reconstruction, but to me, at this juncture in life, it’s a catwalk.

          This lady and I have invested some of our precious time in each other.          Listening, giggling, blushing, and just “chatting,” all the time forming a cognitive image of each other. Then after many attempts, our photographs were exchanged and our feelings toward each other remained unchanged, as we already liked what we “saw” by way of our hearts. But you still don’t see the connection between the two stories . . .

          Well, here it is, as I see it. Like her journey from the cold winter         tundra to a warm tropical paradise, I find myself journeying from the “cold” winter of a dead relationship to a possible warmer, inviting friendship. Her journey was so rewarding because she was patient, adapting to a slower pace, and blending with the culture. Not giving up who she was, as much as combining the two together to form a unique alloy. And this is what she has encouraged me to do on this eve of our meeting in person; slow down, be patient, and see if we have a “connection” or as I would term it, do we “click” in the paradise of relationships? The thought of paradise inspires me and with her as my guide, I’m sure things will work out for the best, whatever the final destination. – Mark

*  *  *

          He wrote beautifully and intelligently, in a way that made it clear he was a man who understood what I had gone through—a man who understood me for the first time in my life. He also pointed out the same “flaw” that my mother had pointed out. It was about my being “ordinary.” My mother, of course, doesn’t see me that way. Neither did Mark. He protested the same line yet got what I meant. I was so intimately touched, I wept in front of my computer screen.

          Mark had written in his prose, “We liked what we saw by way of our hearts.” I couldn’t have said it more succinctly. It was true, as my friend Nancy so accurately described cyber-dating, as “meeting someone from the inside out.” I felt such joy making this connection that I felt a rush throughout my whole body. I loved him from his writing, before I even saw his picture, before we even met.

          My perceptive ten-year old daughter, Natalie, who was coloring in a picture book next to me, suddenly looked up, pointed at my head and exclaimed, “Mom, there are lights shooting up from the top of your head. You look excited!”

          “I am. You mean you see my aura? Draw it for me.”

Natalie drew tall lightning bolts rising vertically from my cartoon head on her scratch paper. It was true. I felt like I had made an internet connection with my soul mate, and my entire being was delighted.

          Later that night, Natalie and I went to the video store and the movie that got my attention there was “You’ve Got Mail.” I rented it, which in itself isn’t that significant since meeting on e-mail was definitely on my mind, but later when I talked with Mark, he told me he had bought the “You’ve Got Mail” music soundtrack that same afternoon.

          That night before bed I humbly collapsed to my knees in prayer, sobbing in gratitude to a God who had answered my prayers for my soul mate, and I begged to be worthy of such a gift.

          We set up our meeting for Sunday at 1:30 pm. I could hardly wait. In New Age style, I consulted the dictionary for my “word of the day” divinity ritual, asking the Powers-That-Be:

          “Where will I meet my soul mate?” With eyes closed, I flipped through the pages like shuffling cards, and the word that my finger randomly pointed to was “landing.”  I thought, OK, I travel, so maybe it will be at the airport?

          Later Mark and I agreed to meet at his work-place—a modern marble building that was easy to spot. He described the lobby and said he would meet me at the bottom of the stairs, or the “landing.” I felt the shiver of déjà vu spring up my spine. This meeting was going to be exceptional and I was sure of it. Somehow, it felt bigger than life, magical, surreal.

          At this point I knew something profound was happening. I consulted the I-Ching Book of Changes, my Chinese fortune-telling book for a clue of what was to come.

          “What is the nature of my relationship with Mark?” I asked the I-Ching.

          I tossed the divinity coins three times to create a meaningful trigram. It read: “This, my fortunate friend, is a most auspicious sign. Among friends, this is the sign of blood brothers. Among lovers, this is the sign of soul mates. For all concerned, this is a good and true relationship, one with a strong male influence.”

          I was elated and a little scared. I decided to check it again, so I did a full I-Ching reading this time. With six coin-tosses, I came up with my hexagram description:  I didn’t need to look it up, I knew it by heart. I knew the sign for Heaven and there were two of them.

          It was the best possible combination you can get for a compatible love relationship. Over the years I have done hundreds of I-Ching readings for myself and numerous friends and acquaintances for the entertainment value, and although much of it was highly accurate, I had never encountered this double yang symbol for anyone’s relationship—not once!

          My spirit soared as I became increasingly anxious.

          Here is what the I-Ching said: “The Universe. Heaven over heaven. Sky beyond sky. Stars upon Stars. Whatever else it is, it will be big, huge, enormous, and everlasting. This is something that will change you forever . . . and for the good. A relationship achieves its full potential. The time for the BIG EVENT comes soon. In a word, the outcome is cosmic.”

          Wow. I felt my heart flutter. As a devoted believer in the power and wisdom of the I-Ching (which scares some people,) I was absolutely awestruck! How do I explain this to anyone? No one will believe me. I can hardly comprehend it myself. I have a lot of faith in God. My prayers have been coming true ever since I left my last relationship and vowed to be more spiritual. What’s more, I had prayed to meet my soul mate. And now a couple weeks later I had the overwhelming sense that my true love and I were going to be reunited in this life.

          The meeting was set for 1:30 so I went about my usual roller-skating routine that Sunday morning at The Roller Garden. At the risk of sounding corny, I told my friend, Old Man Morty, that I was going to meet my soul mate that afternoon.

          He told me: “Your eyes are sparkling and there’s an illuminating new glow about you.”

          I called my mother the night before and left my prediction on her voice mail, “Mom, I’m going to meet my soul mate tomorrow!” I had to tell someone, I was so jubilant.

          I felt our profound connection in his writing, in his manly voice on the phone, the way he enunciated and emphasized his words, his innate understanding and very tender treatment of me. Something was up. It felt out of this world.

          I was much more down to earth and concerned about practical matters on the morning of our first date. What does one wear to meet their soul mate? I mused. My heart was racing, doing back-flips, like it had wings. I was filled with anticipation as I drove to the modern office building in Bloomington, Minnesota. I was already totally convinced I was in love with this wonderful new man and I hadn’t even met him yet.

          Prior to this, I had checked on our astrological compatibility since I’m an amateur astrologer. We are both Aries and his Moon was in Aries too, with both of us having the planet Venus in Aries—the planet of love, of course, which means we fall in love fast. Yup. Every combination and correlation seemed to point to ideal compatibility, harmony, partnership, and again, the words, “soul mates.” I didn’t reveal that I knew any of this when we met, and I tried to stay calm, but the butterflies in my stomach betrayed me.

          I looked up from the landing of the elegant marble staircase and saw Mark standing there radiant and gorgeous, waving to me from the upper level. I should have paid more attention to this early unequal footing. It foreshadowed our overpowering connection from beginning to end. A more handsome man I have never met. He absolutely sizzled.

          We smiled at each other. Grinning, he silently held out his hand for me to follow him and instinctively, wordlessly, totally trusting, I climbed the stairs with him and let him lead me down an atrium hallway.

          Mark beamed as he said, “You look like a movie star.” He pointed to a hand-written paper sign with my screen name on it, Wild Windsurfing Woman, and arrows pointing to where I should sit. On the cushioned bench was another sign he had made just for me, “Please be seated.”

          I noticed a portable compact disk player beside me with his soft music playing for us. Suddenly, he was in front of me. We were embracing when he kissed me. He lifted his hand above our heads, sprinkling glittery confetti stars all over us! Kissing passionately in public, we were alternately laughing euphorically like drunken teenagers, unaware of all the people staring at us. I sat on his lap like I’d known him all my life. I felt a deep and joyful comfort in his presence, a loving peace and comfort that I hadn’t known before, or since.

          From here we walked outside around the quiet lake holding hands, stopping to read the paper love poems he had taken the time to tack onto the posts along the paved path two hours earlier. I was so enamored by his efforts that I could hardly read the words. I was falling irresistibly in love with him. Until then I didn’t believe in love at first sight, now I felt it and no one on earth could talk me out of it. We giggled, bantered, and skipped side by side holding hands like children on a sugar high, oblivious to everyone. No one else even existed.

          On the move now, we hugged and kissed again, in front of amused onlookers on our walk, like a highly romantic movie, the only lovers in the world.

          The chemistry between us was instantaneous, unmistakable, overpowering. The rapport was immediate. It began to rain softly as we ran undaunted, giggling arm in arm all the way back to the office building. We didn’t want our date to end.

          “Would you like to attend church with me this evening?” I asked him. I felt a strong need to praise God and to be with Mark as long as possible.

          He looked apprehensive. “What church?” He asked, possibly afraid I would try to convert him to an astrology cult or some cannibalistic New Age Voodoo sect.

          When I said, “Grace Church” he gasped with incredulous relief. The Baptist Church I mentioned was one he knew well, the same denomination as his own home church. Mark came with me to church and we swayed to contemporary music together, singing close to one another like we had to be touching every minute. We prayed together. Later that night we went out to eat sensuous Chinese food that we both loved. Both of us started to cry as we shared intimate secrets together and then nurtured one another in complete understanding. Empathizing, we felt each other’s separate pain deeply and intuitively, as if we were already lovers.

          It was unmistakable that Mark is one of my greatest eternal loves. There is no doubt in my mind. I saw him again and again after that. Mark said he hadn’t felt that good in years. I was hoping for about thirty-five more.

*  *  *

The song Mark played for me on his portable CD player the day we met was touching. Here is a part of it:

Anyone at All by Carole King

Funny how I feel, more myself with you

Than anybody else that I ever knew

I hear it in your voice; see it in your face

You’ve become the memory I can’t erase

You could have been anyone at all

A stranger falling out of the blue

I’m so glad it was you

It wasn’t in the Plan, not that I could see

Suddenly a miracle came to me

Safe within your arms, I can say what’s true

Nothing in the world I would keep from you

You could have been anyone at all

An old friend calling out of the blue

I’m so glad it was you . . .

*  *  *

          There was just one little problem in all of this wonderful, blissful love between us. Mark was married. His “separated” status was really a couch in his office in the same home as his wife of eighteen years. At least that’s what he told me since I was never over there. He also lived with his sixteen-year-old son and his daughter just out of high school. He asked his wife, Valerie, for a divorce two months before we met. She was taking it badly, begging him to stay. Her desperate pleas left him feeling guilty, indecisive, and immobilized.

          I continued to see him despite his precarious marital status, believing in him when he said he was getting a divorce. I thought it might be weeks at first, then months. But when it wasn’t happening I became disillusioned, angry, and torn over our illicit relationship, between what’s right and wrong. I found myself in a situation I had avoided all my life—being involved with a married man.

I was in love with this individual man. He just happened to be married to someone else. More than a mere red flag, this was a big bull-fighter’s blanket, a huge deal breaker. It went against my values, yet I remained bull-headed about seeing him. I had to.

          My bond to him was unmistakable, unavoidable, and to me, unbreakable. I was hopelessly smitten. Still boggled over how two strangers can fall in love so quickly, and completely, I registered for a class on past life regression to see if we had a past life connection. I hoped I could get some answers there, using hypnosis from a renowned and highly respected hypnotist and past life-regression therapist that a friend recommended to me in Minneapolis.

          That day at class, at the urging of the master hypnotist’s smooth and calming voice, I slipped into a deep trance. He had asked me to volunteer to be an example in front of the small class. He must’ve known I was highly susceptible to hypnosis because of my spiritual practices of prayer and meditation.

          “Why are you here today?” he asked me.

          “To find out if Mark and I have known each other before. I met my soul mate at the end of March and I want to know if we were in love in another life because our bond is so strong.” I said matter-of-factly.

          He asked, “Where do you feel his presence?”

          I touched my swollen, vibrating heart, “here.”

           “What color is it?” 

          “Red.”

          He looked surprised. “Red denotes anger,” he said.

          I nodded yes. Of course, I was angry. He hadn’t left his wife for me.

          Sensing my discomfort, he corrected himself. “It can also mean courage.”

          And yes, I felt I needed plenty of that. After this initial warm-up, the hypnotist put the whole class of eight people through a physical relaxation exercise and then a group meditation. When I was hypnotized again, he asked us to go back to a significant time when we lived before, long before we were born into this lifetime, to an era that addressed the question that we each came for.

          “Notice how you are dressed. Look at your feet. What are you wearing?” he asked.

          With my eyes closed, I looked down in my mind’s eye as if in a dream-trance and saw a big clunky pair of men’s brown boots on my feet. Men’s boots? I was shocked.

          “Follow that image up to your legs. What are you wearing?” he continued.

Dark trousers, sort of like Robin Hood would wear. I could see this like it was a movie screen behind my forehead—the images were colorful, clear, and quite real to me. I was re-living it. It was the essence of me, my spirit, inside a totally different body.

          “Now go up further and see what you are wearing.”

          I was surprised to realize I was a large man. I sensed my bulging groin like a heavy package that hung in front of me. I could feel the surge of testosterone through my veins and I knew then why some males are so sexually motivated. It’s not strong like that with most women.

          I also knew I was in an old English countryside, standing in a lovely green meadow, next to a lone, mature oak tree. I was tall and stocky, a laborer of some sort, very muscular with broad shoulders—maybe a lumberjack.

          I met my clandestine girlfriend (who is Mark now) under that tree as if it were our secret meeting place. She was stunning, an angel with long flowing blond hair reaching past her waist, dressed in a white flowing dress and a bewitching smile with eyes that glowed with love for me. My heart was instantly full, zapped by her intense devotion. I loved her very much and I knew she loved me. We were extremely happy together and I didn’t want her to ever leave. She was my lover and my soul mate in that life.

          I had gotten the answer I came for. I was sure of it now. Then the instructor asked what we were each experiencing in our individual meditations.

          “I was a man in England during the Renaissance, in love with a beautiful blonde girl,” I said.

          He asked me to put myself into the place of that girl—to become her—and I was impressed that as a soul I was able to do this so easily. I moved my light into her body. I became her.

           “The way you feel about the other, is that the way you feel about Mark?”

          He was right on target. The abounding love energy was so real, so mighty, so unmistakably the same.

          “Yes,” I replied, amazed, as Mark’s love for me in this life was confirmed, the same as mine for him. Our feelings for each other were equally intense and real.

          “There you go.”

          And I knew. I was convinced beyond any doubt that the beautiful blonde woman was Mark’s soul in this life and we knew each other before. Then, for what seemed like only five short minutes, I awoke from this hypnotic dream state to find that a full twenty-five minutes had passed in that enchanting place.

*  *  *

          Later that night, I spoke with Mark on the phone, revealing our past life bond. “We’ve known each other before,” I said softly.

          “I know. . .” he whispered before he hung up.

          The intensity of such an ecstatic reunion can only be surpassed by the agony of each inevitable separation. I shed so many tears that summer as I waffled back and forth over not wanting to hurt his family if they should discover our love affair, as well as the moral implications of what we were doing, and the fact that I wanted him so badly to be my husband. I wanted to be a person with high principles, to do God’s will, and at the same time I wanted to hold Mark in my covetous arms. I was in a confusing, difficult dilemma.

          I would tell Mark I wasn’t going to see him until he was legally divorced, setting boundaries that I hoped would initiate his action, but two weeks later I would call him to come over. Or he would call or e-mail me. It was like we couldn’t stay apart, in-spite of ourselves.

          “Nothing can tear the two of you apart.” The I-Ching reading rang true.

          Everything I was ever taught came into question. I had once been so judgmental about women being involved with married men that it split up a close friendship I had. Now it was I who was “the other woman,” the mistress in a secret love affair. To say the physical attraction was the strongest I have ever experienced is still an understatement. It felt more magical, more profound, so much more than sex. It was a cosmic connection.

          I was immersed in his twinkling, loving brown eyes that he called his “stars,” and consumed by the sensuous contours of his perfect face, and his deliciously wide, lopsided lips. A feeling of complete safety enveloped me. Intellectually, I should have been wary of meeting a stranger on the Internet. But this man was no stranger. He was my beloved. It was like something out of the Song of Solomon and an obscure book called, “Advice to a Young Wife from an Old Mistress.” I read the following quote that confirmed and validated what I was going through:

          “The strongest feeling was recognition, as if I had known this man a very long time ago. Somewhere Montaigne writes: ‘We sought each other long before we met. We found ourselves so mutually taken with one another, so acquainted and so endeared, between ourselves, that hence forward nothing was ever so near to us as one another. Being begun so late, there was no time to lose.’”

          This woman writer knew my situation.

          I wanted to make sense of this. The only thing for sure was that it didn’t make any sense. It was difficult to talk to anyone about it, because it was taboo, an extra-marital relationship. Even more than that, the spiritual quality of it was so out on the fringes of normalcy, who would believe me? I didn’t know who to confide in. I did research into the study of soul mates, searching the Internet and library catalogs. There wasn’t much there.

          I found books on reincarnation, past life regression therapy, and reunited soul mates. After reading several books on these subjects, I found many threads and similarities that were too uncanny to be put aside as mere superstition. I discovered others who had experienced what I was now consumed by. I would never be the same.

          My longing for him felt unbearable.

          I cried pitifully. We weren’t seeing each other, because my friends and family insisted it was the right thing to do.

          Now my tears rolled down with an aching heart. Mark said he would leave when his younger son graduated from high school, that it would be three years before we could be together.    

          Time slipped by and a week before Christmas I sent him this short e-mail message:

          “I love you still and I always will.” I couldn’t help myself. I had to tell him.

          He called three times that morning. We re-bonded instantly. He wanted to see me. I said no. I wanted him to leave his wife first.

          He chided me, humorously, “I’m waiting for you to weaken.”

          “And I’m waiting for you to gather strength!”  

          We both laughed. We were at a stalemate. It was just a few more days before I realized how much I was giving up by not seeing him.

          I had a disappointing date with a plain single guy I hardly felt anything for, who talked about wanting to have sex with me. The many climaxes Mark had given whenever we made love came to mind.

          “No,” I told him. “I only want to have sex with someone I love, who loves me.” I called Mark at work to see if he would come over that evening. I couldn’t settle for anything less now.

          He was so thrilled and excited that he had difficulty interpreting the directions to my new house. He stammered over which road to take five times and still he got lost and was late.

           As I waited for Mr. Bliss to arrive, the words of my practical, platonic friend Scott haunted me. He berated me, “Carolyn, it isn’t real!”

          But it felt real to me. I ran around in a frenzy lighting a dozen candles, putting on fresh makeup, making sure there was dinner to make. I even hid an aerosol can of silly string under the bed, so I could spray him if he got too frisky. He once dumped all my neatly arranged shoes out of my closet like a naughty trickster. He was always being The Jokester, a rambunctious teenager in his forties, and I wanted to play my own little prank on him. My heart tangoed at the prospect of seeing him at my door. From a state of self-induced aloneness and romantic numbness, I suddenly came alive again.

          He rang my bell.

There he was, my love of all loves, standing in my doorway, eyes a-sparkle, grinning from ear to ear, sheepishly telling me he was lost for half an hour.

          “You look fabulous and your house is marvelous.” He examined our new love nest.

          I had fixed up the old dilapidated house and renovated it myself, feeling all the while I was creating a cozy home for us.

          We fell into each other’s arms again—so familiar and yet forgotten—how ecstatic it felt to touch each other again. By this time, I had consoled myself. I was just going to love him, no matter what. I chose to feel secure, not doubt him, to respect his decision to stay with his family, even though it meant never being his one and only. I had come to a place of acceptance with him. During our separation I had faced all my fears, slaying the dragon of insecurity within, gaining composure to see it through, come what may.

          I didn’t realize it then, that all that waiting would be at my own expense.

          As infuriated as I had been about his decision to not leave his home and family for me, I also admired the fact that he wanted to be a good father, that his family was important to him, that he had a sense of obligation to them. I implicitly understood his predicament—the fear of disruption, the financial chaos, the grief and loss of a family, albeit one that created little happiness for either spouse beyond routine. Still, I couldn’t compete with that whole package, with all of them and a suburban house. It was just me, my cat, and a little refurbished bungalow.

          Maybe this was our karma. Maybe I was the one who had stayed with my partner in that past life. Maybe this was a spiritual lesson on how it felt to be on the other end of it. How excruciating.

          I had been through my own divorce in this life, so I empathized with his avoidance of his break-up. I stayed longer than I wanted to with my ex-husband, Howard, because we had an adorable two-year old daughter together. An intact supportive family is something most of us want. I know I did.

          It didn’t help that Mark’s wife was imploring him to stay, perhaps realizing what little leverage she had left, in a marriage predicated on her pregnancy. Their start was shrouded in secrecy, much like our affair. She told Mark she was on the pill even though she stopped taking it. Knowing the religion that he was raised with, I knew he felt obligated to marry her, and did so, with parental pressure. Sarah was born and shortly after that, Jesse came. They all held him tightly in place. He couldn’t let them down. He was the head of the household, their dutiful dad, their world.

          I got his decision on November 1st, eight months after we met. His voice mail said, “I’m still hanging around.” He said it in a depressing tone. “I’m going to hang around until Jesse leaves for college.”

Mark said he had been defeated and crushed by his wife’s desperate plea, “So why did we have Jesse then, if you were just going to leave us?” She cornered him.  Mark said Jesse was sobbing too. “How could you just leave us like that? Who is going to take care of us, Dad?” His son’s teary-eyed face left little to ponder. Mark stayed. He said he would stick around for three more years, just as his wife wished.

          I was devastated.

          I had been waiting anxiously for some kind of answer, but I really struggled over how he could really love me when he wasn’t willing to leave. Was I just a pleasant distraction so he could tolerate his passionless marriage? A mere mistress to make love with?

          Had he been lying to me the way he had been lying to her about his whereabouts? Until then I had been so sure of him. Doubts crept in. No, they barged in. My denial crumbled. I saw his lies. He was cheating on her and cheating me.

          I felt like he had been dangling metaphorical carrots in front of me—a ravenous running jackrabbit I was, on an invisible racetrack going nowhere. I sent him my rage-filled retort in an impersonal e-mail, just as cowardly as his own voice mail message. Dramatically, I burned the black silk bathrobe I had given him for his birthday and watched it melt into nothingness—my unsuccessful attempt to extricate him from my soul—to unbind myself.

          I wanted out of this agonizing attachment, to forget him. I recalled hearing the hypnotist share how he too had found his precious one-in-a-billion soul mate in this life and then she had committed suicide. I understood then why someone might feel like doing that.

          I couldn’t part with his love letters, his alluring photos. I hugged and buried my face in my unwashed pillowcases that smelled like him for months. Eternity cologne, how appropriate! Eternal lust; then left in the dust. I cried for a long time, over many weeks and months, whenever I thought about him, which was often.

Who can replace my soul mate? Who could there ever be after Mark?

          I lost my resolve again. I saw him a few more times.

          Whenever he left me he would always say, “I don’t want to leave. Miss me, please.”

          My response would trail him like an echo as he walked out my door. “I already do . . .”

          I finally stopped calling him, only to protect my heart. Since everyone who knew about him wanted me to stop seeing him, there was no one to share my intense grief with. I didn’t do anything despairing, but I understood then why self-mutilating people cut themselves open. They want to see their pain on the outside, the oozing red blood, some visible confirmation of the dire emotion that can’t express itself: Bloody validation. I stayed away from Mark and from sharp objects, and I wrote a poem that poured out of me.

THE MISTRESS

Like a widow whose beloved only comes to her in dreams

Like the lonely rock that holds on in the stormiest of streams

Heart ablaze with fire from some long-ago Great Spark

Shut out from his life, like a Secret in the dark

Hiding beneath the bumpy rug

Lest someone trip or fall

His family safe in their status quo

While I go through it all

Is love so hopeless a case as this?

Years of agony—for a few days of bliss?

Separations so long with each ecstasy sought

Love-sick misery is what fate brought

Waiting, always waiting for a move he never makes

Him, cozy on his fence

While my heart just swells, then breaks.

A true story from Sprinkles from Heaven - Stories of Serendipity by Carolyn Jaynes, M.A