"He left without saying goodbye."
Those words had always conjured up images of a beloved sneaking away in the middle of the night; a scribbled mea culpa left amongst forgotten socks. Now I know it can mean otherwise, like: I was standing right there while he packed and made various trips to his van, and then he got in and drove away. Yes, he left without saying goodbye.
Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised since I asked him to leave. But I always think that we lowly humans should be "better than that." Which means I'm repeatedly disappointed.
Just two night's ago we had had a long, meaningful talk. One of the best of our one year friendship. The next day we drove out to a series of deserted Mexico beaches to explore and beach comb and fish under gloriously azure skies. Ron grilled ribeye for dinner and I poured lip-smacking good "Pieces of Red" Cabernet. All was perfect, until it wasn't. Until he said something about making a fire outside and I said sure I'd be there in a few minutes after I finished a phone call to my daughter. The next thing I knew I stepped outside to see him driving off with the neighbors to take them to dinner.
It's not that specific event, per se. That didn't matter in the scheme of things. It didn't matter because if it hadn't been that event it would have been another. Because no matter how many talks we garnered under our belts, alcohol trumped good intentions. His drinking all day and into the night made mincemeat of love. My marriage of 15 years had ended last year; turned on my words, "I'm not growing old with a mean drunk." That partner was a suave drinker with a cynical edge. This one was a beer and gin explosion of disparaging words and scoffs; or, the sweetest most fun man and lover in the world. I never knew which one would show up. I only knew that every night I faced the question.
Do you get it yet, Christina? By golly, I think I do.
His departure yesterday morn coincided with the lowest tide since I arrived Bahia de Kino. I haven't eaten real food since, which reminds me, I must squeeze myself some juice. I walk the beach and cry, missing fisherman Ron, the birder with eagle eyes and a little boy smile that turned my heart. This morning I Skyped my girlfriend Sandra in Thailand. I suggested laughter therapy for her to move some post-divorce energy. Then, voila! I took my own advice. I made myself laugh out there on the beach at nothing in particular. And laugh. Out loud from the belly.
That final unforgettable day with Ron I had picked up the shell of my life. It looked like a spiral pendant, about the size of a quarter. I held onto it as if I'd found a gold nugget. Then, this morning's walk and forced laughter led into a deep crying jag. I grew quiet, cowgirled-up and bam, out of the blue came the point.
Life force energy moves in a spiral. It comes around, full cycle, but never returns to the exact same point...it travels outward from a dynamic core, an evolutionary surge. This part I knew. What I got this morning was how serious addiction was circular energy. Round and round and round you go. New movement may spawn, but redundancy takes over. It's always back to the same place. There is no progress.
How I wish we could have joined in a spiral dance.