For days after the break up, I feel mildly in shock. We don’t text for the first week. People I haven’t seen for years are suddenly in proximity to me at just the right time in my life. Old friends visiting from Alaska invite me and my daughter up to Grayling to float the Au Sable. I have a grand ol’ time trudging up the shallow Au Sable, pulling their two young sons by a rope tied to inner tubes, then watching them float downriver to the Air B&B’s dock, for a little while forgetting all about my heartache. When the distraction is over, I tie my innertube to a tree in the middle of the river and float, suspended, with my limbs dangling, eyes closed, imagining the pain and heartache flowing out of my feet and hands as they drift in the current. I am having terrible digestive issues as I have on and off for some years now, and I assume this particular flair up is due to the stress of the break up. Immersing my belly in the frigid water seems to help. Napping in the sun certainly seems to help. Laughing with my friends and hearing of their own individual issues and heartaches of life all help to pull my attention from “woe is me” and into empathy, good for both my belly and my heart.
We do an afternoon hike into the Hartwick Pines, and I find that if I am first on the trail, someone else is with me, too; if I fall back from the group because I stopped to take a picture, someone seems to hang back too; we are all just naturally aware of each other and I always have someone near to walk with. Sometimes conversation flows steadily, other times we walk in silence. Both are equally easy and comfortable. This is very new to me, exploring and enjoying nature with others. Of course I have hiked with friends over the years, but this easiness is like a new discovery, or perhaps a rediscovery. I’ve lived so long in an area where I have not connected with others, this weekend away with friends, particularly after my solitary birthday week, is very good for my soul. I think that I want to travel with people for a change going forward, that perhaps I should make that a goal.
One day we all canoe the Au Sable together, and I observe the dynamics of the husband/wife duo, the parent/child relationship, the father/son-in-law interactions, and feel like I’m seeing how “healthy” people navigate relationships. It is not all kindness and laughter; there are issues, grumpiness, ornery comments, and yet, there is no major “problem” or breakdown. Am I the one in my relationships that is unhealthy? Or do I simply choose the wrong people? Or I am only seeing the surface. Of course there is more, deeper – not necessarily bad or good. To paraphrase Shrek, we are all onions.
We see fish, otters, a great Grey Heron quietly fishing, and not a single, solitary turtle the whole time. We stop on sandy shores and swim and play, and hike into the forest. Four of the adults get terribly sunburned, which is ironic considering the meltdown the oldest child had about not wanting to wear his t-shirt (he remained un-burned, while those convincing him of the wisdom of covering up got fried). It is easy, and healthy, and healing. Friends make break ups so much more bearable.
A couple weeks later, long after the Au Sable weekend is over, my guy texts to see how I am doing. Eventually we agree to meet for dinner, and eventually we are tentatively, carefully, seeing each other again, loving each other immensely but somehow still not able to resolve any of our issues. We just avoid them, and I know in my heart this is absolutely the wrong way to handle things, but I also know I simply don’t have the energy to face what seem to be unsolvable issues.
I spend my last night in Michigan before a work trip to Boston with him at the cabin he is a caretaker for. We sit together, holding hands on the deck as we watch an immense thunderstorm roll through. It spreads across the whole sky, in front of us, above us, big booming claps of thunder before the rain comes. I don’t know what we are doing, how to define it, but I know it is so good to be back in his arms, cooking with him, and having him text good morning each day. We are in a bubble, treading so very carefully. I think of my trip with my friends, how there was no need to be so cautious with each other. What’s the difference, I wonder, as the clouds finally break open, unleashing sheets of rain across the valley and into the open windows of the cabin. Neither of us rush to take cover; we remain holding hands out on the deck, letting the rain pelt us, just in it together for as long as we can stand.
